


House of Tomorrow

by The_Real_Fenris



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Everybody Dies, I Will Eat Your Heart, Love, M/M, Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-23
Updated: 2017-11-19
Packaged: 2018-12-05 22:50:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 12
Words: 64,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11587797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Real_Fenris/pseuds/The_Real_Fenris
Summary: “All the flowers of all the tomorrows are in the seeds of today and yesterday.” - Chinese proverb





	1. Attack on Haven

**Author's Note:**

> This is an epic tale of love and loss that Hirrient and I started writing together, but for various reasons they are unfortunately no longer able to work on the project. So the words are (mostly) all mine, however their input was both vast and crucial, so their influence is in every chapter of the work, from the smallest snippets of dialog to all the twists in the plot. So, much credit goes to Hirrient, without whom this story would not exist.
> 
> I've opted to avoid too many spoilers beyond the archive warnings. I'll just say that if you're not familiar with my work, then you should strap in and enjoy one hell of a motherfucking ride.

Dorian Pavus didn’t believe in love.

For “Vints” like him – men who exclusively preferred the company of other men – romance only existed in fairy tales and books. A thing fabricated for silly, rich girls that only ended in disappointment and disillusionment once the marriage had been arranged. Certainly, not all Tevinter couplings were unhappy ones – he had only to think of the loving relationship between Gereon Alexius and his cherished wife. Yet it was still only an exception to the rule.

And, not only had it ended, it had ended _spectacularly_ badly. It was her death that had driven Alexius beyond the brink of sanity. According to Felix – Gereon’s only son and Dorian’s best friend – his father would have done anything to see his mother again, even if it meant risking a rift in the very fabric of the world in order to travel back in time.

Such dangerous magic had caught the eye of the Venatori. Unable to resist their slick, oily promises to save his dying son, Alexius had used his amulet against not only the Herald and his men, but his protégé Dorian, as well. If it hadn’t been for Maxwell Trevelyan by his side in that disturbing future, Dorian would have surely gone mad.

After traipsing unperturbed through the piles of corpses, and seeing his friends eaten by red lyrium in that gods-forsaken future, Dorian had wondered if Trevelyan, able to smile at tragedy, weren’t a little mad himself. In retrospect, Dorian believed that a more rational man would have broken down. Instead, Trevelyan’s unfathomable optimism that they would not only survive but also prevail against the impossible odds buoyed Dorian’s spirits enough to fight.

And fight they had.

Much to everyone’s surprise, they were victorious.

Safely ensconced back in their own time, Dorian had trusted the Herald enough to press Alexius’ amulet upon him. Solemn, Dorian had made his heartfelt suggestion. _You should destroy this before it falls into the wrong hands._

Thoughtful, Trevelyan had turned it over in his own hands, as if seeing it for the very first time. _We don’t know what the consequences would be,_ he finally said _. Until we figure out a way to destroy it, we’ll keep it safe._

Dorian didn’t argue. As a fellow mage, Trevelyan was well aware of the machinations of magic. More importantly – though Dorian couldn’t have explained why – he _trusted_ the Herald implicitly. This despite the fact that there was nothing particularly heroic about Trevelyan – in addition to his idiosyncratic behavior, he was a squat, somewhat dumpy middle-aged man, whose robes were ill-fitting and far from the height of fashion, and less than average when it came to looks. In fact, if Dorian had passed him on the street, he wouldn’t have looked at the man twice.

In fact, of all the men at Haven, Dorian was hard pressed to find one handsome enough to turn his head. He may not have been looking for love, but sex – well, that was entirely another thing altogether. He’d had quite enough of fucking toothless pig farmers for coin since he’d fled to the south, thank you very much. His next man of the night would have fulfill a higher set of criteria. But, given his meager options, Dorian was convinced that he’d be sleeping alone for quite sometime.

Until he met Cullen Rutherford.

***

The first time he’d seen the Commander of the Inquisition’s forces was in Haven. Security in the small mountain town could be described as _lax,_ at best, so, unimpeded, Dorian had just strode into the meeting in the War Room, bold as brass and all business. So focused on Trevelyan, the only familiar face from his meeting with the Inquisition at Redcliff, Dorian had scarcely spared much more than a glance at the other people in the room. Without much ado, he’d delivered his offer to help stop Alexius. Only when the Commander had gently insisted that it wasn’t too late to side with the Templars instead of the mages, did Dorian really notice him.

Fair-skinned, blond, muscular and tall, with shoulders made even broader by the somewhat ostentatious fur stole he wore, he was exactly Dorian’s type. Unfortunate that he was so antagonistic towards mages. Nor did it escape Dorian’s notice how distant the man was around the Herald, and when he spoke, it was with the cool tone that was often reserved for one’s subordinates.

 _We can’t, in good conscience, order you to do this,_ Cullen had said. Though – in Dorian’s opinion – it was rather obvious that the ex-Templar would have actually preferred having the power to boss the Herald around, to make the decision to abandon the mages to their fates, conscience or no.

Not the most auspicious beginning of their relationship.

As quickly as Cullen had come up on Dorian’s radar, he had fallen off again. At least until the whole dreadful business with Alexius was concluded, and Dorian followed the Inquisition back to Haven.

While surviving their traumatic ordeal together, Dorian and Trevelyan had bonded. Trevelyan had an easy-going, almost too-trusting nature that made him easy to get along with, and it had been a long time since Dorian had been friends with another man, much less one who was a powerful mage like himself. Thus, Dorian willingly accepted Trevelyan’s invitation to join him on various missions, mostly in the Hinterlands, whenever Inquisition business took him away from Haven.

Back in Haven, however, life was dull. Even before the arrival of the Inquisition, Haven had been a sleepy little town, with not much excitement by the way of nightlife, beyond one small and not-very-well-stocked tavern, where Dorian spent most of his evenings and his meager remaining coin drinking cheap wine and trading insults with the lively elvhen girl, Sera, or the Iron Bull and his Chargers. During the days, he slept in late. Still, there were plenty of daylight afternoon hours left to fill, and very few books in the entire town worth reading. He’d even begun borrowing bad romances from Cassandra, with the promise not to tell anyone where he’d gotten them. In particular, the author of said books, one Varric Tethras, who had – according to the dwarf himself – also been conscripted against his will into the Inquisition, and only remained now because he wanted to “see how the story would end.”

Left with time on his hands, Dorian quickly developed a new hobby – going to the training yard just outside the gates to watch the Commander train his new recruits.

With a bad romance in one hand and a flask of watered-down wine in the other, Dorian could settle down in a sunny spot to read. Instead of paying much attention to the words on the pages, however, his gaze tended to stray. One moment, he’d consider the Commander’s profile with its strong nose and noble brow, the next he’d let his gaze drop to admire the broad shoulders and the torso encased in form-fitting and bright armor, and then drop again to linger on Cullen’s powerfully muscular thighs and well-formed arse.

The Commander’s looks? Cullen was a tall drink of water on a summer day in Minrathous.

And Dorian was very _thirsty._

There was no easy way of telling, of course, which way Cullen’s tastes lay. During his time in the South, Dorian had picked up on all the cues that men who sought the company of other men used: a certain lisp when speaking, or the use of too many baubles and trinkets, or the telltale sign of a silver band worn around a middle finger, or a rather bright and flamboyant way of dressing. Cullen, however, had no lisp, nor did he wear jewelry. The only possible sign was that ostentatious fur stole he wore. That, and his hair – in Dorian’s experience, few straight men paid as much attention to the grooming of their locks as Cullen Rutherford did.

As the afternoons wore by, Dorian became aware that Cullen was not the only one under scrutiny from afar, because Cullen, in turn, was watching _him._ Every now and then, from across the field, their eyes would catch. And yet, to Dorian’s mild dismay, there was nothing warm in Cullen’s expression. Cullen’s gaze spoke volumes. It said: _I am watching you, mage, for you are not to be trusted._

Still, this didn’t discourage Dorian from his forays into the training yard. Having little else to do, it was a way to pass the time. And by letting his imagination run wild, he was able to cultivate enough fantasies for use in his later alone time. Watching Cullen’s strong hands caress the pommel of his sword, Dorian pictured them on his body, a contrast of much paler skin against his own, imagining the feel of Cullen’s stubble scratching against his skin as the ex-Templar pinned him up against the rough stone walls of his bedroom. Perhaps, after listening to Cullen forcibly bark commands at his troops, Dorian may have manufactured a fantasy in which the man were Templar still, and Dorian his prey, using his lyrium-infused powers against him. Not that Dorian would ever willingly let someone tamp down his magic, but it made for a rather titillating distraction in his quiet, lonely nights.

As he sat one afternoon, pondering the possibilities of actually luring the Commander to his bed, a shadow fell across his book. Blinking up at the figure haloed by the early afternoon sun, it took Dorian a moment to recognize the somewhat shapeless and lumpy figure as Maxwell Trevelyan. Wearing a lop-sided smile, the one that made him look dim-witted, although the man was anything but.

“I’ve been looking for you everywhere,” Trevelyan admonished. He was holding his staff in one hand; with the other he fiddled with the cheap bone buttons on his mage robes. “Are you busy?”

Granted, he was busy watching Cullen. Strange how that act never grew old. With the wineskin he gestured over himself lounging on the steps, his neglected book open in his lap. “Does sprawling like a nug in the sun count?” he quipped. “Because if not, the answer is an outstanding no.” Peering up curiously, he asked, “Why?”

Trevelyan tilted his head. Sunlight splashed through his wild and unruly locks of dark hair. Not for the first time, Dorian told himself that one of these days, he was going to give the Herald a much-needed makeover, including a decent haircut.

“I’m gathering the mages,” he revealed as he scratched a dirty nail against his oak staff, the one topped with a pretty blue sphere encased in filaments of silver. “If you’re not doing anything, perhaps you’d care to come along?”

Dorian cast a glance at the field. As if drawn by magic, his gaze immediately landed upon Cullen. Unsurprisingly, the Commander was watching his exchange with the Herald. Dorian debated silently for a moment. As much as he enjoyed his time in the training yard, he had to admit to himself that he wasn’t actually getting anywhere with Cullen. Perhaps the Herald could offer a diversion, even if it was merely a hike through the woods around Haven, picking useful herbs and flowers – one of Trevelyan’s favorite pastimes when they weren’t on the road.

Vaguely interested, Dorian asked, “Come along where?”

With a stubby finger, Trevelyan indicated the rift in the sky. “Down there,” he said, wearing his crooked grin again. “We’re going to close the Breach.”

Dorian’s eyebrows shot up so far, he was certain they had disappeared into his very fine hairline. He blinked once, then twice, as the Herald’s words sank in. _Gathering the mages... close the Breach..._ for a brief second only, he wondered what the Commander would think about Trevelyan’s using the mages they’d rescued from Redcliff in order to stop demon hordes from falling out of the motherfucking sky.

No doubt that the cold and distant Commander would not _approve._

Snapping his book shut, Dorian rose to his feet. The wineskin tucked away at his belt, he then reached for his own staff, and gave Trevelyan his warmest smile. “Help you close the Breach?” he drawled. “Why, I wouldn’t miss it for all the wine in Thedas.”

***

Like lyrium from a broken flask, the celebrations spilled out of the tavern and into the streets.

Torches and bonfires burned merrily in all the squares and in the streets in every part of Haven. Tucked into corners, minstrels sang lively jigs, accompanied by small bands of musicians on lutes, hand drums, and fiddles, as children jingled bells, weaving between the legs of the dancing townsfolk. Around one of the larger bonfires near the tavern, Dorian perched upon the low wall, nursing his very own bottle of wine that Sera had somehow procured despite the crowd around the bar. Other than Sera, in his own little circle sat Varric, Iron Bull, and some of the Chargers.

Varric, who had always been a little mistrustful of him on his account of being a “Vint”, now eyed him with something resembling respect. Or perhaps the dwarf were merely drunk.

“I heard you played a pivotal role in closing the Breach, Sparkler,” Varric said, speaking loudly over the noise of revelry all around them. “It couldn’t have been an easy feat. Good job.”

It had been a difficult undertaking, and Dorian – under the electrifying presence of Trevelyan and his _we-can-do-anything_ attitude – had nearly depleted every drop of his magical reserves in creating the vortex of power that Trevelyan had used to seal the rift. Except that Dorian, still fatigued from his efforts, was in no mood to boast. Instead, he became fixated on one thing: Varric’s use of _Sparkler_.

Testy, he gave the dwarf his best side-eye. “Varric. I want a new nickname.”

The hand that had been lifting a tankard of ale now stopped in mid-trajectory. With a sly smirk, Varric asked, “What’s wrong with ‘Sparkler’? Not colorful enough for you?”

Dorian huffed a sigh. “You must know me better now,” he insisted. “Or does the moniker you gave me five minutes after we met still apply?”

Varric rolled his shoulders in a half-shrug. “I have the eyes of a storyteller. It’s a gift.”

“So, I’m a bit of light you stick in a window sill to impress passersby? All flash, no heat?” Dorian asked. Then he paused, re-considering. “Hmm... that’s actually pretty clever.”

Mirth danced in the dwarf’s eyes. “See? Embrace your place in the universe, Sparkler.”

Sera yowled. “I wanna new nickname, too!” she demanded, cheeks high in color from the immense quantities of alcohol she’d already consumed. She’d drunk the Chargers under the table on more than one occasion, so Dorian was certain that Sera’s stomach had a hole in it. “Come on, Varric!”

“I’ll ask you the same question I asked Sparkler,” Varric said. “What’s wrong with Buttercup?”

Sera pulled a face as though she’d just sucked on something sour. “I ain’t no freaking flower! I want something... you know... _strong.”_

“Something strong?” Varric echoed.

“Yeah,” Sera said, straightening her spine as she pursed her bow-like lips. “Like _arrows.”_

“If you want a name that’s strong,” Bull rumbled, “then you should go with something with the word _dragon.”_

Ignoring the ensuing argument, Dorian pressed the lip of the bottle against his lips. As he did so, he lifted his gaze, letting it roam. All around the nearby square, the soldiers were dancing with the village girls. It seemed that everyone had joined in the celebrations of their closing the Breach. As feet shuffled up dust, skirts flew up in the air, and the music was mingled with masculine _whoops_ and feminine raucous laughter. Everyone turning and spinning so that to watch them nearly made him dizzy.

Shifting his gaze again, he found a familiar face in the crowd. On the other side of the square, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, stood Cullen Rutherford. And, even though the crackling light of the bonfire before him made it difficult to see far, it was very obvious that Cullen was looking in Dorian’s direction, his expression somewhat inscrutable.

Watching him.

The nudge of an elbow drew Dorian’s attention back to the bonfire. Glancing over and up, up, up, he noticed Bull smirking teasingly down at him. With his impossibly large hand, he gestured at Dorian’s wine bottle, still half-full. “Try and keep up, Vint.”

Was Bull trying to get him drunk in order to later seduce him? Given some of Bull’s recent – and rather inappropriate – comments during their recent sojourns through the Hinterlands, a planned seduction was likely. However, the prospect of sex with a Qunari? Dorian would have been lying if he said he hadn’t been desperate enough to at least consider it. But, in truth, he had much prettier prey in mind.

Glancing back over, he felt a little thrill to note that Cullen was still watching him.

Dorian wondered: _What is he waiting for?_

On the other hand... What was he himself waiting for?

Turning back to Bull, he offered a conciliatory smile as he rose from his perch, bringing them eye-to-eye. “Actually, I did promise to share a drink with the Commander,” he said lightly, which was a lie. “So you’ll have to try to enjoy the remainder of the festivities without my scintillating presence.”

Bull merely grunted. Sera’s response was an equally eloquent, “Pfft!”

Varric chuckled. “I’m not sure how we’ll manage without you, Sparkler, but we’ll try.”

***

Dorian picked his way through the crowd. The gaiety of the townsfolk was almost infectious, and Dorian felt a lightness in his step that hadn’t been there before, washing away his earlier fatigue. Of course they had cause for celebration – after all, only hours ago, there had been a demon-filled hole in the sky, torn right through into the Fade. And the pride Dorian felt to have been part of its closure was no small matter.

Haven was no pinnacle of culture, nor even anything remotely resembling a teeming metropolis, not by any stretch of the imagination. But had he finally found a place where he could belong?

As he made his way towards his target, he was keenly aware of the Commander’s eyes tracking his every movement. Even now, among the revelry, the man stood stiffly at attention, hands folded before him, as if he expected a call to duty at any moment. Illuminated by moonlight, Dorian could see his face clearly, still wearing that inscrutable expression. Yet, as Dorian reached him, a friendly light warmed his eyes.

_Please, please, please, let this man be gay._

“Enjoying the festivities, Commander?” Dorian drawled as he settled himself against the wall beside Cullen, and held out the wine bottle in offering.

Cullen paused for a careful moment before accepting the bottle. Lifting it, he pressed its lips to his own – the same place Dorian secretly thrilled to note, where Dorian’s lips had touched only moments before, creating a sort of ghost kiss. After taking a moderate swig, he then handed the bottle back to Dorian, as he wiped away the drops of wine that had dribbled down his chin. “To be honest,” he admitted, “parties aren’t really my thing.”

His fingers aching, Dorian resisted the urge to reach out and stroke the Commander’s fur. “Really?” he asked, his voice lightly teasing, “then what _is_ your thing?”

 _Really, now, Dorian,_ he admonished himself. _Flirting already?_ He must have been drunker than he thought.

Cullen lifted one eyebrow slightly at Dorian’s tone. Expression neutral, he answered. “Making sure that the Inquisition has sufficient forces to defend itself. Keeping everyone safe. To the best of my ability, at any rate, given our lack of resources.”

Dorian shifted. Through his clothes, he could feel the cold radiating from the stone against his back. “Tell me something,” he said. “What’s it like for you, exactly, being the Commander of the the Inquisition’s forces?”

There was another thoughtful pause. “I suppose it’s a lot like playing a game of chess,” he said. “The map is the board, while the troops are the pieces.”

A hint of surprise bubbled up, and Dorian couldn’t stop himself from blurting out, “You play chess?”

Cullen’s lips quirked up – an extraordinary thing that, as it was the first time that Dorian had seen anything resembling a smile on the Commander’s face. “Yes, I learned when I was younger,” he admitted, “so I became quite good at it.”

Dorian took a sip of wine, then passed the bottle back with a wicked smile. “Shame we don’t have a set,” he drawled playfully, “so that you could prove your... prowess.”

Again the slight lift of eyebrow at Dorian’s not-very-subtle tone. He then cleared his throat. “It isn’t about proving anything,” he said. “Though it would be a pleasant diversion to play with you, if we manage to find a board.”

 _If the Commander wants to “play” with me..._ For a moment he wondered if Cullen were flirting back. Sadly, he didn’t think so.

“You know,” Dorian said, “I wouldn’t be surprised if the Herald found one in his travels. The man seems to have a knack for finding the oddest of treasures in the most random of places. Where others would only see a pile of rags, the Herald sees ‘shiny thing’. Why once, he pulled out a bottle of Mackay’s Epic Single Malt out of a pile of bones in a bear cave in the Emerald Graves. Surely, a chess board wouldn’t be beyond the realm of possibilities.”

Wry amusement flashed across Cullen’s face. “It sounds like you enjoy your travels with the Herald.”

“Well, except for all the mud, the bandits, the undead hordes, demon-spawning rifts, and the rabid bears, I can’t really complain.”

Cullen chuckled softly.

It was like music to Dorian’s starved ears.

Dorian watched as Cullen drank again, admiring the way the apple in Cullen’s extended throat bobbed up and down as he swallowed. He had to resist the urge to lean over and lick it. Like chess, sex was also a diversion, and Dorian was well-versed in the game of seduction. And someone had to make the first move.

_Dare I...?_

The night was cool. Only now that he was away from the intense heat of the roaring bonfire had the cold begun to creep into his bones. He shivered.

Then an unexpected thing happened. Before he knew it, Cullen was reaching up to remove his fur stole. With a smooth gesture, he then lay the stole over Dorian’s shoulders, then tugged its edges closer together, wrapping Dorian up in it. For a moment, Dorian was frozen in surprise at the unexpected gesture. Then, reaching up, he wormed his fingers through the fur. It was softer than he had expected, and taking a deep breath he became aware that it smelled distinctly like Cullen – a delicious, almost intoxicating mix of elderflower and oakmoss.

_Perhaps I don’t have to make the first move after all..._

For a moment they stood, their gazes locked. By the moonlight, Dorian noted that the warmth had returned to Cullen’s honey-brown eyes. Dorian was about to lean closer to say something scandalous, but in that moment, Cullen’s eyes flicked away to something over Dorian’s shoulder in the distance.

In an instant, the warmth was gone, replaced by a determination hard as flint, and then Cullen was moving, his hand moving automatically to the pommel of his sword, as he shouted out into the darkness.

“Enemy approaching! To arms!”

***

Something pounded on the sealed gates, rattling the hinges. Against the encroaching army, they seemed flimsy as paper. Nestled in the mountains, surrounded by treacherous slopes on all sides, they were all trapped like rats in a hole.

Cullen’s call to arms had spread quick as wildfire through the town. They’d come rushing down down to the gates. There, a reedy voice could be heard just beyond the weathered wood and rusty iron. _I can’t come in unless you open!_

And then Trevelyan – _like a bloody fool!_ – dashed forward, demanding that the gate be opened. Unquestioningly, the nearest soldier obeyed.

Cullen, with sword drawn, followed at the Herald’s heels.

At the scene just outside the gate, Trevelyan drew up short.

A strange pale boy stood there in frayed leathers and a large, unfashionable hat that shadowed his eyes, red on his knives, surrounded by a sea of dead bodies in dark armor.

_I’m Cole. I came to warn you. To help. People are coming to hurt you!_

Death. So much death.

But that was only the beginning.

Spinning, his sword held aloft, Cullen roared into the crowd of mages and soldiers that had gathered. _Inquisition! With the Herald! For your lives! For all of us!_

They surged forward.

Like cockroaches, the enemy Templars continued to swarm over them, knocking down everyone in their path.

Chaos reigned.

Like the other mages, Dorian hadn’t had time to recharge after their endeavors at the Breach. Yet, he stayed at the Herald’s side, reaching down deep within himself in order to pour out spell after spell as they fought their way towards the trebuchets. He didn’t even realize that he’d lost track of Cullen until the Herald had leaped upon the second of the trebuchets and began to frantically spin the heavy wheel, taking aim at the approaching army.

In the battle, Dorian glimpsed the Seeker, silver sword flashing as she pierced another breast plate. Farther back, Varric stood, crossbow in hand, rapidly firing into the throng, a look of grim determination on his face.

In their wake, a trail of bodies.

_Death, so much death._

Behind them, Haven was engulfed in flames.

“The townspeople!” the Herald cried. “We must save them!”

***

Dorian struggled to keep up with the Herald as he ran through the streets of Haven, pounding down doors in an attempt to save the townspeople.

_Blood, crimson in the moonlight over pristine white snow._

_A soldier staring dead-eyed at the stars, his guts streaming across the pavement._

_A little girl in a white dress, her throat slit._

_The smell of burnt flesh heavy in the air._

_A young woman, her skirts thrown up above her waist, bloodless limbs askew like a broken doll._

_Death and more death._

Dorian pretended not to see as the Herald wiped away the tears that spilled freely from his eyes.

Up ahead, Roderick and the stranger called Cole stood at the door to Chantry, shouting at them to hurry, then sealing the door behind them.

Cullen trotted up. His perfect hair was out of place, and there was a smear of blood – and Dorian was relieved to realize that it was someone else’s, not Cullen’s – down one side of his face.

“Herald,” the Commander said, his tone grave. “There are no tactics to make this survivable.”

Dorian felt his heart sink as Cullen explained his plan. A feeling that was clearly reflected on his comrades’ faces.

Then a small ray of hope as the Chancellor spoke, his voice thin. “There is a path...”

Everyone listened as the Chancellor explained about the path. Then, with dismay, as Trevelyan and Cullen discussed what needed to be done – a distraction in the form of another avalanche, this one large enough to bury Haven.

Cullen placed a hand on Trevelyan’s shoulder. “Herald. Are you sure...?”

Silent, Trevelyan and Cullen just exchanged a glance. The answer was clear in Trevelyan’s red-rimmed eyes.

Cassandra protested. “Herald! If that dragon attacks... you cannot do this alone,” she said, her gaze bright and hot as fire, in a tone that brooked no argument. “I am going with you.”

In the shocked silence, Varric then stepped forward, expression grim again as he hefted Bianca in his hands. “Well, I’m no hero, but... what the hell. Count me in.”

Dorian had no burning desire to sacrifice himself in order to save an entire town. But he was willing to fight in order to save his friends – or, at least, the closest things to friends he’d had since he’d left Tevinter. And the friends he’d had in Tevinter? That was a term to be used loosely.

His staff clacked against the floor as he stepped forward. “What?” he snapped as all eyes turned to him. “And miss the chance to have minstrels sing of my glorious feats? Why, I wouldn’t dream of it!”

Trevelyan didn’t speak, but his eyes nearly brimmed over with gratitude.

Cullen’s gaze swept over them. Stopping, they lingered on Dorian for a moment. Then he turned back to the crowd that had gathered behind them.

“Inquisition!” Cullen snapped. “Follow Chancellor Roderick through the Chantry! Move!”

***

Trevelyan jerked the wheel one more time. Then he lifted his face to the sky. Panic flashed over his face as he whirled to face the others. “Run! Now!”

In the sky, the dragon wheeled. Pure terror turned Dorian’s spine to ice. For a moment he remained paralyzed by panic, and then Cassandra had latched onto his arm, tugging him along as she shouted near his ear. “Come on, mage! You heard him. Run!”

Then Dorian was half-running, half-tripping over his own feet. Blasts of fire exploded on the ground behind them, in the place they’d stood mere seconds before. To his right, he heard Varric cough. Turning his head, he expected to see Trevelyan following, and then was gripped once more by panic when all he saw was smoke.

“Wait!” he panted out. “The Herald!”

Cassandra tugged harder on his arm. “The Herald made his choice!” she shouted. “There’s nothing we can do to help him!”

Dorian dug in his heels. “We at least have to try!”

“We all knew this was a suicide mission, Sparkler,” Varric said. “We’ll be lucky if we manage to save our own skins!”

Dorian tossed another glance behind him. As he did so, the wind, having picked up, now rolled across the path, clearing away some of the smoke. In the clearing beyond, he saw Trevelyan, staff upraised, as he stood between the darkspawn magister and his dragon.

_Maker help us all._

Twirling suddenly about, Trevelyan kicked the lever of the trebeuchet into action. Chain spun off the wheel as the war machine creaked to life. Wood groaned as the sling swung up, launching the boulder straight into the mountains. Even from here, Dorian could hear the impact of rock against rock, followed by the _shush_ of the snow as it began to move, turning into a dull roar as it began to cascade straight towards them.

“Shit,” Varric swore. “We’re dead.”

Cassadra growled. “Dead if we don’t move _now,_ dwarf!”

Cassandra gripped Dorian’s arm tighter. As she jerked him along, Varric pushed him from behind. Too stunned to resist, Dorian allowed himself to be led away, leaving Trevelyan to his doom.

What did it matter? They were all doomed. Even if the magister or his dragon didn’t kill them, they didn’t know how to find the secret path the chancellor had mentioned. By now, everyone else would have already escaped. Abandoned, they would die in the avalanche. If he hadn’t been so short of breath, Dorian would have said so.

They path cleared of enemies, the streets of Haven deserted, they ran unimpeded through the still-burning flames. Dorian didn’t dare to look behind him again, instead focused on their apparent goal: the Chantry at the top of the hill.

Rounding the corner, he saw the entrance ahead. To his astonishment, the doors were still open as if in welcome, and a lone man in armor stood there.

With a sweep of his arm, Cullen waved them inside. Speaking to all them with relief in his voice, though his gaze remained fixed on Dorian.

“Thank the Maker you’re safe,” he said.

 


	2. Aqua Magus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still reading? WONDERFUL, I LOVE YOU. 
> 
> I'm aware that we are off to a slow start. (I don't know about you, but I LOVE a slow burn.) I promise that things will become a lot more interesting in the next chapter, though. :) 
> 
> Planning on updates weekly. Comments and crits are welcome!

A bitterly cold wind blustered the thin powdery snow up into their faces, frosting their brows and lashes, miniature icicles forming on Dorian’s mustache, as they slowly trudged their way deeper into the mountains.

Single-file, they marched. Cullen, who had gathered information about the path from the Chancellor during the evacuation of Haven, led the way. At first, they had easily followed the trail through the drifts of snow, trod down by so many feet. But now, as they progressed, the wind continued to howl and blow snow into the villagers’ footsteps, shifting the landscape and eradicating the path from sight. Soon, Dorian realized with dismay, there would be no trace left at all of their passing. Worst case scenario, he, Varric, Cullen and Cassandra would become lost in the wilderness. And without resources enough to even start a fire, they would eventually freeze to death.

Even without this fear, the mood among them was bleak. And, although no one had voiced it aloud, they were all thinking the same thing about the Herald’s fate.

As they continued to force their way through the snow drifts, Dorian became aware that he couldn’t feel his feet. They’d been walking for hours with no signs of life. Exhausted, his magic drained, his vision white, and his limbs painfully numb, he simply couldn’t go on any longer.

Strangely, the snow that he sank down into felt like the warm embrace of an old friend.

For a moment he believed that he was back in his bed in his childhood home in Qarinus, safe among the luxurious silken sheets and pillows, fifteen years old again. Back when he was still a prince of Tevinter, with the world still at his feet. Before he’d had his first taste of the pain of loss, bitter as milk thistle, sharp as nettles.

As though from a great distance, he heard a thin wail of a female voice calling his name. But he couldn’t bring himself to care.

_Dorian! You must get up!_

Other voices, deeper, strained with worry, mixed in. The wind whipped the words away from Dorian’s ears, leaving nothing more than a cacophony of incomprehensible sounds. All he wanted was to be left alone in the warm blanket of snow to sleep. Didn’t they understand that there was no point in going on? They had lost the battle and Trevelyan was most likely dead. They were lost in the unforgiving wilderness. And he was so very tired.

Except that his companions refused to leave him alone. Hands tugged at him, forcing him up. Too tired to even fight, Dorian only groaned in protest as arms lifted him up off the ground. His protest ignored, he was swept up and off his feet. He was then baffled to find himself being held against a body clad in cold, hard armor. Against his face he felt the soft brush of fur, and breathing it in he smelled the familiar scent of oakmoss and elderflower.

_Safe._

Leaning his face against the fur-clad shoulder, Dorian Pavus closed his eyes and promptly fell asleep.

***

Perpetual twilight reigned in the Frostbacks, so when Dorian opened his eyes again, he had no idea of the time of day. Or even where he was. His memories a haze, it took him a moment to figure out that he was lying on a small, somewhat uncomfortable cot near a low fire, a scratchy woolen blanket pulled up to his chin. Someone had placed random torches around the large, open tent, offering some resistance against the dark. In the dim light, he was barely able to make out the cots nearby, filled with shapeless bundles of men and women. And it took him another moment to realize that someone was keeping vigil at his side. Cassandra Pentaghast.

Seeing Dorian’s eyes flutter open, Cassandra slowly closed the book in her lap after – _horror of horrors!_ – dog-earring one of its pages. “Good,” she said with her usual hard tone. “You’re awake.”

The blanket upon his body was restrictive, making his limbs heavy as lead, and his mouth was terribly dry. No spittle wet his lips even when his tongue darted out to lick them. Voice hoarse, he croaked out his most pressing question. “Where are we?”

Cassandra eyed him for a moment, as if weighing her words. “At camp,” she finally revealed. “We managed to stumble upon the others after wandering another hour through the snow after you fell. Only by the grace of the Maker are we even still alive.”

Dorian pondered that. He may not have been comfortable, but at least he wasn’t cold anymore. Wiggling his fingers and toes, he was relieved to discover that he could still feel them. Except that Cassandra’s explanation was far from sufficient. “I fell?”

“You don’t remember?” Cassandra asked. When Dorian shook his head, she added, “Yes. I suppose you had surpassed your limits. All of us were exhausted. If we hadn’t found the camp...” Cassandra trailed off, leaving the worst unspoken. Her eyes drifted briefly before returning to Dorian’s face. “At any rate, you owe the Commander your thanks. I don’t know where he found the strength, but... _he_ carried you.”

Still half in a haze, it took a moment for her words to sink in. Cullen had carried him. Through the snow. For an hour. Dorian was by no means a slender wisp of a boy, so carrying him – even by someone as hale and strong as Cullen – could not have been an easy feat.

Showing gratitude? Not Dorian’s strong point. Except that he did remember why they’d been fleeing through the wintery wilderness in the first place. Half-hopeful, he ventured, “And... the Herald?”

All hopes that Trevelyan had somehow miraculously escaped were dashed as soon as he saw the expression that darkened Cassandra’s face, even before she negated it with a sullen shake of her head. “Too much time has passed,” she said. “And Solas is convinced that a storm is coming. Even if the Herald managed to make it out of Haven alive, it would be unrealistic to expect that he could survive the tempest...”

He hadn’t thought it possible for his mood to become any bleaker. Suddenly he was recalling a moment in which Trevelyan, his face and robes spattered horrifically with blood and mayhem, wearing his lopsided grin, had trotted up to him after they’d surprise-attacked a bandit camp in the Hinterlands, and, holding out as if in offering, a flower he’d plucked up from among the rocks, saying, _Look, Dorian. Isn’t it pretty?_

His eyes stung, suddenly watering. _It’s only the wind,_ he thought. He resisted the urge to pull the blanket up over his head and burrow underneath it. Instead, he was infinitely grateful as Cassandra turned her head, staring at something or nothing in the distance. Taking her distraction as an opportunity, he reached up to surreptitiously wipe the tears from his eyes.

Drawing a deep breath, he considered Cassandra’s profile. It was a fine profile, with a noble brow, a strong, straight nose, and cheekbones to die for. Like his own, it would have looked marvelous in marble. As he thought this, Cassandra’s arched brows dipped, her eyes narrowing as she squinted out into the dark space just beyond the flaps of the tent, beyond the edge of camp. For a long moment she just stared.

Then her expression became one of surprise. “No. It _can’t_ be...”

“Cassandra...?”

The warrior didn’t respond. Instead, she jumped to her feet, her gaze fixed on something in the distance. Curious, Dorian struggled to sit up, then peered out into the darkness. Inky black, and spotted with swirling flakes of snow like dancing stars against the night sky. For a long moment, he saw nothing more.

A heartbeat. Then another. Then he glimpsed movement. For a moment he believed it merely a trick of his eyes, but then he saw it once more. Not an animal or an army approaching through the trampled swaths of snow, but a lone figure. For another moment it was nothing more than an indiscernible shadow among shadows, and then, in another heartbeat, the figure emerged from the dark into the circle of light cast by the camp.

Recognizing the man who limped towards them, Dorian felt his heart lift.

It was the Herald of Andraste.

***

While the entire camp rejoiced at the return of the Herald, Dorian, petulant, remained on his cot in the tent, alone and forgotten.

Cassandra had rushed to Trevelyan’s side, leaving Dorian in the care of Stitches, the mercenary company’s healer. Who had kicked up a fuss when Dorian had tried to get up, insisting that he needed to rest. And who, in true Charger fashion, had threatened to wallop Dorian back into submission if he refused to cooperate.

 _He really needs to work on his bedside manner,_ Dorian thought, as he resentfully lay back down on his cot after the healer had given him some water. _And I much would have preferred wine._

Still, when he closed his eyes, he must have fallen asleep, for when he opened them again, the light seemed different, and he was rather slow to realize that the place where Cassandra had been sitting was now taken by someone else.

Cullen Rutherford.

Cullen’s gaze was fixed upon something in the distance so he was unaware that Dorian had stirred, allowing the mage an uninterrupted moment to study the man. Like before, Dorian was presented with a profile. A tuft of blond hair had fallen down over his brow, uncharacteristically out of place, somehow softening his look, giving him an almost boyish air. Although Cullen couldn’t boast a bloodline as noble as the Pentaghasts – who were, incidentally, related to the Pavuses – it was still a very handsome profile, despite the abundance of dark stubble. Only the brow wore more creases than usual, giving the Commander the air of a man who bore the entire weight of the world on his shoulders. Shoulders that lacked the usual fur, as that was still wrapped around Dorian beneath the woolen blanket.

Then Cullen turned his head, his gaze falling upon the cot. For a moment, their eyes met – steely gray to honey brown tinged with affectionate warmth. Dorian felt strangely vulnerable to be lying down and looking up at Cullen, and broke the silence. “Cat got your tongue, Commander?”

Cullen blinked. Then he shifted. “I... I just wanted to check on you. To... make sure that you were all right.”

Although he knew it was petty of him, Dorian still felt petulant for having been forced to stay abed, abandoned at the arrival of the Herald. Which was so distracting, he’d entirely missed the hint of real concern in Cullen’s voice. “At least _someone_ was willing to spare a moment to do so.”

Cullen regarded him for a moment. Then he said, “The Herald did come to the tent straightaway to see you. But you were sleeping, and he didn’t want to disturb you.”

 _Ah._ He had been thinking of Trevelyan. Interesting how Cullen had picked up on it. Perhaps the man was more perceptive than Dorian had initially given him credit for. Except now he felt a bit silly for being so selfish. “Is he... is the Herald all right?”

“He arrived cold and exhausted, but he is otherwise unharmed,” Cullen revealed. “After he managed to escape Corypheus and his dragon, he somehow stumbled upon our tracks. If he hadn’t... well, clearly the Maker was watching over him.”

Dorian didn’t possess a Templar’s faith in the Maker. Not that he was a non-believer. He just thought that the Maker had better things to do than personally meddle in the affairs of mortals. Even mortals who had supposedly been saved by the hand of Andraste Herself.

“Well,” Dorian said. “I must say that it was rather rude of Corypheus to decide to bring an army of Red Templars down on our heads during the festivities. Why, I think I might have to send him a strongly-worded note.”

A flicker of a smile hovered over Cullen’s lips. But as quickly as it had appeared, it faded. “I must admit that I am... troubled by these Templars.”

 _As should we all._ Red lyrium was nothing to mess with. “There’s not much point in worrying about that _now,”_ Dorian murmured. “At the moment, I’m much more concerned about what we’re going to _do.”_

Gravely, Cullen nodded. “I don’t disagree with you, as our situation does seem dire. However, the Herald has already spoken to Solas. He knows of a place deep in the Frostbacks where he believes we will be safe.”

“Oh, goody,” Dorian said lightly. “I do so love any adventure that requires trekking through a wintery wonderland. Count me in.”

Was that another flicker of a smile? Dorian couldn’t be certain, as Cullen then rose to his feet. “I suggest that you rest as much as you can,” he said. “For it has been decided that we will set out in the morning.”

Dorian watched as Cullen turned to leave. In truth, a part of him still didn’t want to be left alone. “And, pray tell, Commander,” he called out. “Where, exactly, are we going?”

Cullen briefly glanced away, up towards the northern-most ridge. Then he glanced back at Dorian. “An old elvhen place. I didn’t catch the name,” he admitted. “But in the King’s tongue, it’s called Skyhold.”

***

Skyhold was a dump.

That had been Dorian’s initial impression. He’d never been fond of elvhen ruins – they were just too... _elfy_. Walls and entire buildings had dilapidated, blocking off staircases and rooms, and making the simple act of walking around generally unsafe. Also, snow and ice had encroached through every window and gap, so that even the interiors were glacial. Not to mention the appalling lack of decoration.

“Are you absolutely certain that you want to live _here?”_ Dorian asked, as politely as he could, as Trevelyan dragged him from building to building with child-like glee. It hadn’t been Dorian’s idea that the Herald give him a personal tour. But in the face of Trevelyan’s immeasurable enthusiasm, Dorian had quite simply been unable to say no.

Trevelyan tugged more vigorously on Dorian’s arm. His eyes sparkled in the early afternoon light as he drew Dorian through a courtyard towards the largest staircase he’d seen so far.

“It’s even bigger than Haven. Can you believe it?” The words bubbled out of his mouth. “The views are phenomenal. We’ll have more than enough room for everyone. We can even plant a garden!” At this his face lit up even more. “Plus right here we can even have a proper training yard for Cullen.”

Dorian was far from convinced that anything would even _grow_ in this climate, but at the mention of the Commander’s name, all thoughts of pointing this out flew clean out of his head. “And what do the advisers think of this plan?”

“Well, Cullen likes that fact that it’s highly defensible,” Trevelyan said. “There’s only one way in or out. Plus, if Corypheus ever were to find us, we’d see his army coming from miles away.”

That much was fair, Dorian thought, as they were in the middle of fucking nowhere.

“Leliana likes that fact that we’re very isolated. She said she can control her network of informants from any place, but if Corypheus sends any spies to us, it would be far easier to weed them out than it would be in a big city.”

At least cities had entertainments. And shops. And food. And other basic survival needs, such as alcohol and acceptable sex partners.

“And Josephine...” the Herald’s eyes lit up again. “Well, I think she’s used to having a more... cosmopolitan lifestyle. I don’t think we’ve made her job as ambassador any easier. Though she did say that, once we finish with renovations, she’d like to invite any important dignitaries here...”

Dorian only half-listened as Trevelyan continued to talk about the ambassador, and in far greater detail than he had about either Leliana or Cullen. It had been obvious to anyone with eyes back in Haven that Trevelyan had been quite taken from the onset with the Antivan girl. Not that Dorian would have ever voiced this cruelty aloud, but his thoughts on the matter of Trevelyan actually courting his ambassador were far from kind. Trevelyan was out of his league. Even though the Trevelyans were a well-to-do family, they lacked the clout of the Montilyets, and, also, Maxwell was without prospects, having been cut off by his family and tossed in the Circle for being a mage. Moreover, he was far too old for Josephine – nearly twice her age – and hardly the attractive suitor that a woman of her station would willingly choose for herself. Assuming she even got to chose – rich families were notorious for arranging marriages, a reality into which he himself had nearly been forced to submit.

By now Trevelyan, now waxing almost poetically about Josephine’s virtues, had dragged Dorian up the stairs and into the largest building by far, into what he assumed was once a great hall. Now in disrepair, it was as cold and dank as the rest of Skyhold. _Honestly, this just isn’t going to do,_ Dorian thought as he nearly tripped over another pile of rubbish. Did the Herald really expect him to live like this? Squatting among the ruins and freezing his arse off? Granted, Dorian had found himself in some rather unsavory places, doing some rather unsavory things to survive since he’d left Tevinter. But this?

It was too much. _Fuck no._

He was ready to apologize to the Herald and take his leave of the Inquisition. They’d have to defeat Corypheus without him after all, he was afraid. He wouldn’t even need time to pack for what few meager possessions he’d still owned had been lost in Haven. Except at that moment, Trevelyan had tightened his grip on Dorian’s arm, and was practically thrusting him through the doorway of an old atrium and up another set of stairs, saying, “Oh! And wait until you see this! I’ve saved the best for last!”

More snow. And more rubble. That’s what Dorian expected. He opened his mouth to blurt out his apologetic farewells, but as they reached the top of the stairs, all words died on his lips.

It was warmer here, the windows intact and letting in the late afternoon light which illuminated the entire circular room. And every wall, from ceiling to floor was lined with tightly-knit shelves made of sturdy dark wood. In stunned silence, Dorian let his eyes roam over the shelves that stretched all the way from one end to the other, broken only by the lip of the staircase upon which they stood.

Every shelf was filled.

With books.

Beautiful, glorious books.

Trevelyan peered up into his face, his eyes sparkling again, and wearing his crazy lop-sided grin. “Well?” he prompted.

Dorian’s gaze circled the room once more before returning to rest on the Herald. “I think,” he said once he’d found his voice again, “that Skyhold is the most wonderful place in all of Thedas.”

***

In the days following their arrival, there was a flurry of activity. The Herald was the Inquisitor now, a role he’d accepted with quiet reservation. Strong men had been put to work clearing out some of the debris, while the smiths had been commissioned to fire up the old forges and begin making the primary, most essential repairs. Josephine was often seen scurrying about the grounds, making notes and sketches upon her clipboard, while Cullen did indeed take over the courtyard for the purpose of training his troops. As for the others of the inner circle, Dorian could frequently find them in the courtyard at night, bonfires burning, and sharing whatever batch of bad liquor they’d unearthed from the old tavern. Which – thanks to Dorian’s prompting – Trevelyan had put high on his list of buildings to be renovated.

In the midst of all this exuberant chaos, Dorian spent most of his time either in his room or exploring the library. He’d half-expected to find a collection of indecipherable elvhen texts, and was delighted to find a variety of books on a number of topics in the King’s tongue. On the first day, he’d already managed to discover several “must read” books, which he accumulated in piles in his personal niche near the stairs. He’d even managed to acquire a comfortable wing chair, which he tucked into his niche, already dreaming of long afternoons passed there, escaping into some long-forgotten esoteric tome. It didn’t even matter to him that Solas had claimed the atrium below, for the odd elf was quiet enough, or that Leliana had claimed the space above as her own, despite the occasional caw of her growing collection of messenger ravens.

As a member of the inner circle, he’d been assigned his own room, conveniently located not far from the library. Although the room was small and filthy after decades of neglect, Dorian was unwavering in his enthusiasm about finally having a space of his own. Once he’d managed to clean out the dust and cobwebs, he’d begun to decorate with items acquired by the Inquisitor. He’d hung swatches of shiny Orlesian silks over the walls, and tucked several of Trevelyan’s “shiny things” into every corner. He’d even managed to stumble upon a gorgeous full-length mirror in a gilt frame in what appeared to be an old storeroom. So ornate and heavy, he’d had to acquire Bull’s help just to drag it up the stairs, along with the large wardrobe he’d uncovered in the same storage area.

“You owe me a drink, ‘Vint,” Bull remarked, his chest still heaving from the exertion.

Dorian just smiled. “Serves you right for being the ‘muscle’ of the Inquisition,” he said. Bull did not seem displeased by this description. “But, yes – I’m sure I could arrange to stand you a drink. Any requests?”

Bull tipped his head. So tall, his horn nearly scraped against the ceiling. “I don’t suppose you could find some _Maaras-Lok,”_ he said.

Dorian was familiar with that – Qunari firewater that tasted like death and dirty socks. He made a mental note of adding it to the list of things for Trevelyan to acquire. “Yes, yes,” Dorian said, already ushering Bull through the door. “I’ll see what I can do.”

The door shut behind him, Dorian turned to consider his reflection in the mirror. It was of obvious elvhen make, but he could sense that there was nothing magical about it. Still, he was thrilled to have it. It had been a long time since he’d been in possession of anything larger than a shaving mirror, so it pleased his vanity to be able to see himself from the top of his perfectly coiffed head down to his fashionably booted toe again.

Looking around the room, Dorian realized that he had everything he needed. He hadn’t known what to expect when he’d offered to join the Inquisition – he’d only known that someone from his country should be there to help stop Corypheus. And yet he’d been surprised to find not only a place where he could belong, but in the Inquisitor, he’d also found a friend. And not only one friend – since Dorian’s selfless act in Haven, he’d been aware that some of the others, especially after Varric had recounted the tale and painted Dorian in a heroic light, had begun to warm up to him.

Well, he had everything he needed, except for one thing.

Sex.

Was the Commander interested? Or not? Dorian still couldn’t tell. Which vexed him, as he was usually quite astute when it came to determining if a man’s tastes leaned towards the company of other men. Since they’d come to Skyhold, Dorian had only gone down once to the training yard to watch the man training his recruits, headily aware that Cullen was watching him. But, despite his hope, Cullen had not come over to speak to him. Defeated for the day, Dorian had slunk back to the library to distract himself.

As he pondered what to do about Cullen, a knock came at the door. For a moment, he thought it was possibly Bull having returned, but, when he opened the door, Trevelyan stood there. In one hand dangled what appeared to be a wine bottle. In the other, a somewhat large rectangular wooden box with a checkered pattern, with a small metal clasp in the middle.

“I thought I’d find you here,” Trevelyan said. Holding up the box, he smiled. “I wanted to give this to you right away. If you’re not busy, I thought that maybe we could use it.”

His interest piqued, Dorian took the box. Setting it down upon the bed, he flicked open the clasp. Nestled inside on red velvet he found rows of intricately carved wooden chess pieces, with dragons instead of horses as knights. With genuine surprise, he looked back at the Inquisitor. “How did you –?”

Grinning wider, the Inquisitor shut the door. “You did say you wanted a chess set, didn’t you?” Without waiting for a response, he sat down on the edge of the bed, and held out the bottle. “I thought we could share this while we played.”

Peering at the label, Dorian was shocked to recognize it – _Aqua Magus._ A product of Tevinter, the liquor was popular among the elite magisters because it was both rare, and therefore quite expensive, but also infused with a generous amount of lyrium.

Swallowing down his surprise, Dorian glanced back at the other man. “We need to open this immediately,” he decided, already reaching for his belt knife. “You set up the board.”

***

_Glistening droplets of liquor trickling down over tan skin, pooling in navels. Sticky hands and stickier lips. Dorian lapping off the liquor, causing nubile boy bodies to squirm. Drinking it warmed from their mouths. Laughter, light, and guttural growls filling the private room of the elvhen brothel deep in the slums of Minrathous, echoing in his intoxicated head. Blood hot, engorging pricks, sharp crack of playful slap, more laughter. Calling for another bottle of Aqua Magus._

_Trying to forget..._

_Then later, lazily stroking his boys of the afternoon, one under each arm, after his passions have once again been spent. Drunk for days, he has no idea how long he’s been here, or how much of his father’s coin he has wasted in his debauchery. Doesn’t immediately recognize the old man who stops in the open doorway as the servant slips out. Doesn’t care who sees him sprawled among the dirty sheets, scent of sex and gutted candles still thick in the air._

_Does your father know where you are?_

_Too drunk to care, Dorian scarcely raises a protest as Gereon Alexius drags him bodily, only half-dressed, out of the brothel and into his private carriage. Tucked in the back as they traverse the bumpy roads towards the Gilded Quarter, head spinning, the Aqua Magus finally catches up to him. Hanging his head out the window like a dog, he vomits down the side of the carriage while Alexius watches him with a mix of concern and pity._

_His stomach a knot, his mouth bitter with the taste of bile, Dorian can barely raise his head. Please, he says. Please don’t tell my father._

_Alexius is silent for a moment, still regarding Dorian with that same expression._

_Then he says, with such kindness that it squeezes Dorian’s heart, Sleep, boy. Everything will be all right._

_As if touched by a magic spell, Dorian lets his heavy eyelids fall shut. In that brief moment before he falls asleep, he allows himself to believe Alexius’ words, and pretends that everything will be all right._

_For a brief moment, Dorian forgets._

_***_

“The father that wasn’t your father,” said a voice. “You blame yourself for not being there to defend them. But you couldn’t have known.”

Dorian’s head jerked up. Torn from the memory of his past, he became aware that he was sitting on the floor, the empty bottle of _Aqua Magus_ between his legs, and that he was rather drunk. He could still feel the subtle hum of the lyrium buzzing under his skin. And he also became aware that the Inquisitor was sprawled across Dorian’s bed, his face mashed into the pillows, lightly but steadily snoring.

Glancing up, he found the source of the voice. Perched in the open window of his room was Cole, the strange spirit-boy who had come to help them in Haven. Dorian hadn’t spoken to him, but knew that Trevelyan had asked him to join the Inquisition.

Dorian eyed him curiously. How Cole had managed to climb up to his room, he had no idea. “Do you always make such a grand entrance? Because sneaking up on people like that, you’re going to give someone a heart attack.”

Cole lifted his head as if sniffing the air. As the brim of his ridiculous hat rose, Dorian could see his eyes, two pale jewels in the dim light. Glancing at the bed, he asked, “Is he going to be all right?”

Dorian looked at the Inquisitor. Clearly that fact that he was snoring was proof enough that the lyrium-infused spirits hadn’t killed him. “Apparently the man isn’t very good at holding his liquor,” Dorian mused. “I suspect that he may have quite the hangover in the morning. But I’m sure he’ll live.”

Cole seemed to consider that most carefully. Then he asked, “Why is he painted?”

Dorian paused. He and Trevelyan had indeed started out by playing chess. As they had continued to drink, they’d abandoned the game, as Dorian had decided it was high time he gave the man a make-over. Pulling out every scrap of elegant clothing out of his new wardrobe, he’d dressed the Inquisitor up in brocade and velvet and silk, then proceeded to dip into his meager make-up bag. As he’d lined the Inquisitor’s eyes in black, he’d been surprised to note for the first time how pretty they were. Wide and dark as Antivan coffee, and framed by a lush of thick, black lashes that would have been the envy of any noblewoman.

His eyes were definitely Trevelyan’s best feature. Remarkable, even. Strange how he’d never noticed before. Or perhaps he was just that desperate?

“I believe the look we were going for was ‘Prince of Tevinter,’” Dorian admitted. “Still, you haven’t quite explained why you’re sitting in my window.”

Bird-like, Cole cocked his head. “The lion’s heart calls for you, bewitched, wanting, afraid. But he holds himself back, the wall too high to climb.”

 _The lion’s heart._ Dorian startled, wondering, needing to know. “If you mean the Commander, you should just say so.”

Cole’s head dipped down, the hat obscuring his face for a moment. Meeting Dorian’s eyes again, he said, “I’m sorry. Sometimes the words get tangled up and I say them wrong.”

Dorian suddenly climbed to his feet, silken sleeves fluttering. “Cole? I don’t suppose you know where Cullen is right now, do you?”

Cole glanced behind him, as if his gaze could pierce the darkness that far. “One candle burning. Maps he traces with his fingers, imagining that it’s your face. Wishing, wondering. He thinks it a tomb.”

If the boy only spoke in riddles like this... well, it was no wonder he wasn’t very _popular_. Still, given what Dorian knew about Cullen’s obsessive habits, there was really only place he could be: his office at the top of the ramparts.

Spinning about, Dorian turned to consider himself in the mirror. Draped in fine Orlesian silks – another gift from the Inquisitor – his eyes expertly lined in black, his nails painted the same dark hue, and a brush of gold glitter highlighting his perfect cheekbones, he looked like a true Prince of Tevinter. Pleased with his reflection, he then turned towards the door. Opening it, he drew a deep breath before he stepped into the darkness, mentally preparing himself as he focused on one thought.

_Cullen Rutherford, I will have you._

 


	3. Dorian in Love

The sky over the ramparts was spangled with stars as silvery as fish scales, the ancient stones worn smooth by centuries of footsteps, dusty and pale by the light of the moon.

Dorian paused at the top, one hand on the latch of Cullen’s door. For a moment he just stood there, his ear nearly pressed against the heavy wood, listening. But no tell-tale sounds slipped through the cracks to alert him of the conditions within. If Cullen were indeed inside as Cole had said – well, eluded to, rather than said – then he was either sleeping or working quietly.

Full of liquid courage, Dorian drew in a deep breath, ignoring the chilling feel of the night air in his throat, then pushed the door open and strode inside.

Seated at his desk, a quill in his hand perched over a half-filled piece of parchment, Cullen looked up with surprise at the intrusion. Seeing Dorian, he then managed to compose his expression into something else. Something... guarded.

“Dorian,” Cullen said as he gently lay the quill down and then rose from his chair. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

Dorian didn’t just walk towards Cullen. He sauntered, letting his hips sway, and knowing just how the silk would shift about his body, covering then revealing skin as he moved. A grand tease – one he’d performed dozens of times. As he skirted the desk, he noted how Cullen’s eyes widened. “Working _hard,_ Commander?” he drawled in his most sultry tone. “By now, everyone else in Skyhold is asleep. Perhaps it’s time for you to also go to bed?”

Dorian was close enough now that he could actually see the rise and fall of the apple in Cullen’s throat as he swallowed. In an instant, he’d changed from collected Commander into flustering boy, his voice was soft and thin as rice paper. “You look... different.”

Was the Commander pleased by his appearance? Dorian decided to take his words as a compliment. With one more step, he closed the distance, then settled a hand boldly on Cullen’s shoulder. As he did so, he saw Cullen’s eyes widen once more. And then, as the blond sucked in a deep breath, a hazy light suddenly appeared in his eyes.

 _That would be the lyrium,_ Dorian thought. He’d ingested enough of the _Aqua Magus_ – by now it was oozing out of his pores, and clouding about him like a perfume. Temptation indeed for any Templar, he imagined, including one as upright and reserved as Cullen.

Still, Cullen hadn’t pushed him away. Emboldened, he let his hand slide down Cullen’s chest. “Strange,” he murmured, “I think I look more like myself. At least the self I was back home in Tevinter.”

Cullen inhaled sharply. Then his hand shot up, seizing Dorian by the wrist. Where his fingers wrapped around Dorian’s wrist, the skin was hot, as if the Commander’s touch were scorching his skin. His insides tingling, Dorian felt a twinge of anticipation quiver up his spine.

Undeterred, he leaned closer, letting his hips press against the Commander’s, and secretly pleased to find that he wasn’t the only one who found this scenario arousing. Shameless, he then began to grind his blossoming erection against Cullen’s own.

Around Dorian’s wrist, Cullen’s fingers twitched, but he made no further moves to stop him. His breath jagged and hot against Dorian’s lips, he gasped out, “Dorian... _what are you doing...?”_

Smiling, Dorian jerked his hips harder, eliciting another gasp from the Commander. “What am I doing?” he echoed. “Why, I’m seducing you, Commander. Don’t tell me that you haven’t been wondering what it would be like.”

At Cullen’s side, his other hand clenched into a fist. His face flushed, he was the picture of a man trying very hard to resist. His hand tightened around Dorian’s wrist, and he flinched slightly, as though he were about to shove Dorian away from him.

“What I’ve been wondering,” he stammered, “it – it doesn’t matter. My duty – that is to say – I cannot allow myself to be distracted. We shouldn’t – we shouldn’t be doing this. Especially with you being a mage – I cannot, in good conscience – oh, _fuck it.”_

The hand holding Dorian suddenly jerked him forward. Cullen’s eager mouth found his in a passion-infused kiss, as his other hand found Dorian’s waist. Sword-calloused fingers dug into his hips briefly, then Cullen spun him around so that his backside pressed against the edge of the desk. Releasing his grip on Dorian’s wrist, Cullen then reached behind him to use an arm to sweep all the papers and maps off the desk. The ink bottle tinkled as it shattered against the stone floor somewhere near their feet. Ignoring it, Cullen then seized Dorian’s hips with both hands. A soft cry of pleased surprise escaped Dorian as Cullen lifted him bodily and threw him down upon the desk.

Dorian felt as if his entire body were on fire.

_Why does it feel so... familiar?_

This – he’d felt like this only once before.

_Why now? Why with him?_

Rough hands pulled at silks, stroked down his body, and riffled through his hair. In just a moment, Dorian was completely naked. He ached for more of Cullen’s unexpectedly expert touch. No, more than ached for it – he _needed_ it. Licking his lips, he felt the heat of Cullen’s wanton gaze as it trailed down, greedily drinking in the sight of so much toned muscle and bronze skin.

 _When was the last time a man looked at me like this?_ It had been so long ago, that Dorian could scarcely remember.

Something he didn’t _want_ to remember.

Two pairs of hungry hands reached up, tugging impatiently at straps. Jerking off stubborn boots. Tearing frantically at fabric. _Clang!_ of armor as it was discarded on the floor, then Cullen was kicking off his small clothes, revealing all of him.

All the light of the sun seemed to be contained in that one candle burning in its stand, gilding Cullen’s skin, making a portrait in shadow and light of the hard, muscular planes of his impressive warrior’s body. From between his legs, the hard length of his magnificent cock stood proudly at attention. Dorian, aching with every fiber of his being, stared at Cullen’s glorious nakedness if he’d been struck dumb by lightening.

As Cullen climbed up over him, Dorian opened his arms and let his legs fall open, eagerly offering his body up for the Templar’s pleasure, and wondered who, exactly, was seducing whom.

***

Lying in Cullen’s bed, through the half-patched hole in the roof, Dorian could see the daybreak streak across the sky, lightening it from black to a deep purple.

He’d stayed far longer than he’d intended.

Beside him, Cullen slept. For a while, Dorian listened to his breathing – slow, steady and deep. Beneath his lids, Dorian saw the movement of his eyes. The Commander was dreaming, then.

_Is he dreaming of me?_

Dorian sat up carefully, almost regretfully disengaging himself from the blond-haired arm that had been draped across his waist. He held his breath as Cullen stirred briefly, then released it as Cullen became still again. For a moment he just admired the sleeping man beside him – there was much to admire – and asked himself why he was still here. Normally, once the business of sex was done, there was rarely a reason to linger. Lingering meant that there would a chance that they’d be caught. Not that having sex with men was unheard of in Tevinter, but it was frowned upon in polite society, and anything more than that was just plain unacceptable. After Alexius had taken Dorian under his wing, the aspiring young mage had learned to be discreet in his affairs.

Yet he had lingered. Mostly with the excuse that his own bed was most likely still occupied by the Inquisitor, and that it would be heartless to rouse the man and kick him to the proverbial curb at this ungodly hour.

On impulse, Dorian reached out, lightly tracing Cullen’s lips with the tip of his finger. _Such a handsome man._ And his vigor had been unforeseen. For some reason, Dorian had imagined the Templar innocent and inexperienced, but this night had proven that assumption misguided. Instead, Dorian, his passion ignited, had nearly burned up in its flames. His heart hammering like a tinsmith under Cullen’s touch. His gaze. His lips. That familiar feeling from so long ago.

_Strange that I could feel this way again after what happened with... in Qarinus._

Dorian wasn’t certain what it meant. He only knew that it caused a strange sensation in his chest, as if a large fist were squeezing his heart. It frightened him.

Suddenly he knew. He had to get out of here before it was too late.

Throwing back the blankets and rising silently from the bed, he ignored the cold blast of the air that rippled over his skin. He scurried down the ladder from the alcove back to Cullen’s office below, where he gathered up his silks from the floor. Hastily dressed, Dorian threw open the door without a glance back, and fled, his heart hammering once more, over the ramparts and into the dawn.

***

When the letter came, and Trevelyan offered to accompany Dorian to Redcliff in order to confront his father’s retainer, Dorian accepted his offer gladly. Beyond the necessity of handling the situation before his father opted to send kidnappers after him – which wouldn’t have been the first time – Dorian needed the distraction that being on the road with the Inquisitor would provide.

Despite the gloom hanging over his head, and the shock of the reunion with his father – a reunion which did not end well – Dorian and the Inquisitor managed to have a moderately good time together. Dorian had convinced Trevelyan that, as it was only the two of them, that the Inquisition could afford rooms and fine meals at some of the better inns and taverns along the way, rather than the usual camping. There’d been plenty of wine, conversation, and gambling both on their leave and on their return. By the time they’d arrived back in Skyhold, there was little that Dorian did not know about the Inquisitor’s thoughts on magic, and his mood had lifted.

“Maybe one day you and your father will be able to talk,” Trevelyan said as they dismounted at the stables. “See eye to eye.”

Dorian nodded at Blackwell, who he’d spotted in the back of the stables, seated on a stool and carving wood for some project or other. The older man just stared at Dorian, then returned the greeting with a gruff nod of his own head. Dorian knew that Blackwall didn’t care for him, but was determined to change his opinion eventually.

Letting the stableboy take the reins of his own roan, Dorian smiled at the Inquisitor. “You’re very optimistic,” he said. “It’s a charming trait.”

Turning, they started to walk away from the stables, up towards Skyhold proper. His smile fading, Dorian spoke in a low voice. “Maker knows what you must think of me now, after that whole display.”

Mirth flashed in Trevelyan’s eyes. “Oh, I don’t know,” he said, his tone lightly teasing. “It was certainly a spectacle.”

Dorian lifted one eyebrow. “Oh? I’m so pleased to provide you amusement.”

Trevelyan grinned. “There has to be a reason I keep you around.”

Despite himself, Dorian laughed. “Just the one?” he asked, then made a dramatic gesture of placing his hand over his heart. “My wounded pride!”

Trevelyan laughed.

As the climbed the steps towards the Great Hall, Dorian glanced up at the ramparts. Not that he would have been able to see anyone who stood upon them, the height and angle too great. Still, he wondered if they were being watched?

“At any rate, time to drink myself into a stupor. It’s been that sort of day,” Dorian said. “Join me sometime, if you’ve a mind.”

At that, both of the Inquisitor’s eyebrows shot up. “After what happened last time? I’ll, uh, have to think about it.”

Dorian laughed again. “As you wish, Inquisitor.”

He didn’t go immediately to his room. Instead he stopped at the library with the intention of finding a tome on theoretical magic in the Fade – a topic he and the Inquisitor had discussed at great length during their trip. He hadn’t been perusing the shelves for very long when a servant appeared. “Message for you, Mister Pavus.”

Dorian thanked the lad, then sent him on his way. Sinking down in the chair, he considered the folded piece of parchment. It bore a simple seal with no distinguishing crest. Curious, Dorian broke it, then read the note.

It was only ten words long, the ink barely dry.

_Care for a game of chess? Meet me in the Gardens._

It was signed, quite simply, _Cullen._

Dorian carefully folded up the note again, considering his options. He would have been lying if he’d said that he hadn’t thought of Cullen since the night they’d spent together. And since then, he’d come to the conclusion that running away from the Templar was just cowardly. After all, it was just sex. Amazing, mind-blowingly good sex.

And Cullen – clearly – wanted _him._

Smiling to himself, Dorian tucked the note away in a safe place among the shelves, then headed out towards the Gardens.

***

The re-opening of the tavern – christened _The Herald’s Rest_ after their illustrious leader – was celebrated a few weeks later with great fanfare.

It seemed like everyone in Skyhold was packed into not only the main room, but conversation and laughter spilled from the upper floors above. Having jostled his way through the merry crowd without spilling his drink, Dorian had found most of the members of the inner circle at a table near the bar, pleased to note that someone had saved a seat for him. Sliding down into it, he greeted the others with a chipper, “Why all the long faces? I thought this was supposed to be a celebration.”

Cole’s whispery voice somehow penetrated the commotion of the tavern. “‘Barman laughs. Slides the drink over. Tankard in view the whole time, no chance poison was added. Blade at his waist. Club under the bar. Moves with training, mercenary or guard. Use that if I have to.’”

Bull, who sat with his back to the wall, grunted in response. “Yeah. I go for the shoulder, a shot he trained to take on the armor. But, since he’s a barman now and not a merc, he bleeds, flinches, and I trap the arm and break his neck.”

The others side-eyed Bull.

“Why, The Iron Bull?” Cole asked.

Bull shrugged as he lifted his tankard. “I didn’t do it, kid. It was just idle thought, in case it came up.”

“Marvelous,” Dorian remarked with a hint of sarcasm. “Do you think about how to kill everyone you meet?”

Bull just gave Dorian a long, serious look. “Do you not?”

Dorian raised a challenging eyebrow. “And me?”

A smirk appeared on Bull’s scarred face. “I’d have to gain your trust first before I snapped your neck. And it’d have to be quick. Otherwise you might go all blood mage on me and demons fly out of your ass.”

According to Sera, Dorian’s ass was also the source of her never-ending supply of arrows. _Apparently my arse is ever more talented than I thought,_ Dorian was about to say, but Cassandra made a noise of disgust.

“Ugh,” she said. “Must we always talk about killing?”

“Well, Seeker, it is one way to pass the time,” Varric said. “And I seem to recall a time where you weren’t against using violence against innocent dwarves.”

Cassandra made another noise of disgust. “Not this again,” she muttered. “And you, Varric, are not _innocent.”_

As the two of them began to bicker, Dorian settled deeper into his chair. As he sipped his wine, he scanned the room. Elbow-room only at this point, and so loud that the melodic strains of the bard Maryden were nearly lost in the din. Soldiers flirting with the serving girls, while the bartender Cabot poured drink after drink. Then, he felt his heart skip a beat as he spotted Cullen standing near the bar. Deep in conversation with Josephine and the Inquisitor, Cullen hadn’t noticed him.

Dorian’s admiration of the Commander did not go unnoticed by the others. With an almost crafty look, Cassandra spoke. “So... you and Cullen?”

His first instinct was to deny it. That’s just what men did in Tevinter. Except that when he looked at his friends’ faces, he was surprised to note their expressions of approval. Still, he had trouble working the words out of his throat. “Yes. Well. You know.”

A smile lit up Cassandra’s face. “I’ve never seen Cullen so happy before,” she revealed. “Finding each other in the Inquisition? How positively romantic.”

“Seeker, I wasn’t aware that you had such a soft heart,” Varric teased. “Actually, I wasn’t aware that you even had one.”

“Ugh. Just – just shut up, Varric.”

Varric glanced up, just as Cullen approached their table. “And... hello, Curly. We were just talking about you and a certain mage from Tevinter.”

Looking up, Dorian met Cullen’s eyes. Again his heart skipped a beat as the Commander smiled warmly, just for him. Which confused Dorian a bit. For weeks now, they’d been sneaking around together. That’s just the way it had always been done in Tevinter. Except now Cullen was clearly making no secret of their relationship. Did it mean that Cullen wasn’t ashamed to be with him?

“That explains why my ears were burning,” Cullen said. To Dorian he added, “I was hoping that you would come tonight.”

At Cullen’s unintended innuendo, Bull snorted a soft laugh.

 _Is this happiness?_ Dorian supposed it was. Uncharacteristically speechless, he could do nothing more than smile back at Cullen.

“Maker,” Cassandra muttered, so softly that Dorian almost didn’t catch it. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone this in love before.”

 _Love?_ No. It wasn’t love. Of course not. He’d already made that mistake once when he was so very young, and had paid for it dearly. A mistake that he’d sworn that he would never make again.

It always ended _badly._

It ended with someone _dying._

No, Dorian didn’t like that memory – even after all this time, it was too raw, and could still cut like the slicing of a thousand razors, ravaging his soul. He hastily tried to stuff it back down into the abyss of his subconscious, but it was already too late.

“Rilienus,” Cole breathed, his pale stare fixed directly on the mage. “‘Skin tan like fine whiskey, cheekbones shaded, lips curl when he smiles.’”

At the mere mention of the name from his past, Dorian felt his heart seize, the breath caught in his throat.

Cole’s pale fish eyes cut into him, deep, his next words lacerating Dorian’s very soul. “He would have said yes.”

All eyes turned to Dorian. Mostly with curiosity, with a hint of confusion. Dorian couldn’t bring himself to look at Cullen anymore, so he didn’t know what Cullen’s reaction was. All he knew was that he felt like his entire body had been unexpectedly plunged into ice water.

He stabbed Cole with his eyes. Forced the words through gritted teeth. “Cole. I’ll... thank you not to do _that_ again, please.”

***

“So,” Cullen said later on, as they stood in the familiar confines of his office, finally alone. “Rilienus. Who is he?”

Dorian stepped further into the room. Stopping in front of one of the bookshelves, he pretended to consider its contests, in an attempt to buy time in order to organize his scattered thoughts. Thoughtfully stroking his mustache, he sent out a silent plea.

_Maker help me._

Telling the truth would gain him nothing. Turning, he regarded Cullen with an air of levity, and spoke the words meant to reassure. “Oh, no one special, really. Just some boy I once knew in Qarinus,” he lied. Then, not knowing what compelled him, added a grain of truth. “He died.”

Cullen regarded him skeptically. Of course Cullen knew, just as well as Dorian did, that Cole only picked up on people’s strong emotions. He picked up on things that _hurt._

And, as Cullen was aware after their weeks spent together, Dorian was a terrible liar.

Cullen stood a step forward, still regarding Dorian, his gaze now tinged with understanding, and a touch of sympathy. “This boy,” he said. “He meant something to you, didn’t he?”

 _Something_ was the grand understatement of the century. Still, Dorian had no intention of revealing his true feelings, afraid of having to relive them once again. “Really, no,” he insisted. “Just... you know. A childhood sweetheart. A fleeting thing.”

Cullen didn’t say anything, but the look he gave told Dorian that he was clearly not convinced.

Dorian reached up to pinch the bridge of his nose. Hard enough so that the pain would ground him. Then he dropped his hand and sighed. “It was fifteen years ago, _amatus,”_ he said. “Too long ago to matter anymore. What matters now is the present.”

Cullen cocked a curious eyebrow, but said nothing.

This wouldn’t do. He could feel himself skirting that lake of pain. He’d have done practically anything to end this conversation before it was too late.

Striding determinedly forward, Dorian lifted his arms, placing both of his hands on Cullen’s shoulders. As he did so, he gazed deeply into Cullen’s eyes to drive home his false sincerity. “And, at present, I have the man I want right in front of me.” With his most teasing smile, Dorian let his hands slowly slide down Cullen’s chest. “Wearing too many clothes, might I add.”

“Dorian, if you...” Cullen began.

Dorian kissed him.

***

Later, Dorian lay in Cullen’s bed, staring up at the broken ceiling. Through the hole in the roof, he didn’t see the stars.

Beside him, Cullen slept the sleep of the dead.

In his stomach, he had a tight, sickening sensation as though he’d been forced to drink poison. Pressing a fist to his lips, he stifled the sob that rattled suddenly loose from his throat, as his mind replayed Cole’s gods-forsaken words, over and over again.

He would have said yes.

_He would have said yes._

***

_No one special, really. Just some boy I once knew in Qarinus._

How utterly comical that he’d managed to say such lies with such a straight face. He was certain that he deserved some sort of award for his acting skill, despite the fact that the Commander had obviously not been convinced by Dorian’s act. Still, Cullen made no further mention of Dorian’s supposed childhood sweetheart, and, after a few days, Rilienus sank back down – albeit kicking and thrashing – into Dorian’s subconscious.

Where he belonged.

Fortunately, there was always something happening at Skyhold to distract him. Such as Krem bashing the Iron Bull in the head so hard that the Qunari’s blood had gushed down his face like a waterfall, throwing Trevelyan into a full-blown panic as Krem laughed and Bull remained completely stoic despite his horrible head injury. Or when Trevelyan flew into one of his foot-stomping temper tantrums when someone (Sera) had stolen the entire box of candied dates that the ambassador of Orlais had gifted him. Or how he’d needed to console Cullen after someone (Sera, again) had messed about with his desk. Or how someone (apparently Cole, this time) had left a wooden duck in Dorian’s bed. To make amends, perhaps.

Or how Cassandra had nearly _murdered_ Varric when she found out that the dwarf had been in touch with the Champion of Kirkwall all along and just lying to her about it all this time.

Even better, the Champion was coming to Skyhold to aid the Inquisition.

And – even better than that – he was bringing his _boyfriend._

Cullen had laughed at Dorian’s exuberant reaction to that bit of news. “I would have mentioned it sooner if I’d known you’d get this much pleasure from it.”

Dorian continued fussing with his hair in his bedroom mirror. “Are you joking? I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but we – you, me, and Sera – are outnumbered. That the Champion is coming here with his publicly acknowledged male lover? I call that two points for Team Queer.”

Once Cullen had assured him that his hair was perfect, the two of them headed down to the front gates for the Champion’s arrival.

It had been Trevelyan’s idea to form a small welcoming party. Along with the Inquisitor, the advisers were there. As were Cassandra and Varric, who stood apart, silently glowering at each other.

No one had invited Dorian, but no one seemed particularly surprised to see him following along behind the Commander. As Cullen went to stand with Leliana and Josephine, Dorian sidled up to Varric. Let his gaze shift curiously between the grumpy dwarf and the angry Seeker.

Innocently, he asked, “So, Varric, are you and Cassandra...?”

Varric turned to him with an expression of horror. “What? No! Why would you even ask that?”

“Truly?” Dorian drawled, making no attempt to hide his skepticism. “Bizarre.”

Cassandra, feathers ruffled, puffed up like an angry rooster. “I’m right here!”

Dorian smiled winningly. “See? She’s right there. What are you waiting for?”

Varric sighed. “Just because two people dislike each other doesn’t mean they’re about to kiss, Sparkler.”

“Not according to your books.”

Cassandra made a disgruntled noise, then turned away.

Varric sighed again. Then cocked his head as he studied Dorian. “By the way, Sparkler, before they get here... I should probably warn you about Fenris.”

Confusion clouded Dorian’s features. “Fenris...?” Strangely, that name did sound familiar to him. It took him a moment of searching his memory banks. In fact, he did vaguely recall Varric once telling him about this Fenris character, except that Dorian had been – unsurprisingly – rather drunk at the time. “Oh, yes. The Champion’s elf companion. The one with the lyrium markings you told me about.” Dorian paused, thoughtful. “Hmm. Fascinating. I’d love to study those.”

Varric looked slightly bemused. “Ah. Well, Sparkler, _that_ isn’t going to happen. Before he escaped from slavery, Fenris belonged to a magister from your homeland. So he doesn’t exactly _like_ magisters. Or mages. Or anyone from Tevinter, actually.”

“He sounds charming,” Dorian remarked dryly. “Perhaps we can paint each others’ nails later and reminisce about the nightlife in Minrathous.”

“Seriously, my suggestion is that you stay away from him because he might try to kill you.”

“Kill me?” Dorian lifted a hand to his chest in a mockery of shock. “Why, how absurd. I’m far too spectacular to simply be killed.”

“Just... trust me on this, Sparkler.”

Bubbling over with too much enthusiasm, the Inquisitor gave a little shout. “The Champion is here!”

As Varric stepped forward, Dorian hung back. After a few more minutes, two men arrived on horseback. A sharp, loud whistle from the Inquisitor brought the stable boy, who led the horses away after the men dismounted.

As the Inquisitor greeted Hawke and Fenris and made introductions, Dorian took the opportunity to study the newcomers.

Garrett Hawke was a jewel of a man among the flint – tall, somewhat lanky, but with sturdy broad shoulders and legs that went on forever. Ruggedly handsome, despite the excessive amount of facial hair he possessed. _Maker – give that man a bath, a shave, and a decent haircut and Cullen might have something to worry about._

Fenris was also lanky. He wore dark, form fitting armor that was all metal plate and black leather – _sexy in a ‘bondage’ kind of way,_ Dorian decided _–_ that showed off what was a good deal of muscle for an elf. Hair as white as the snow on the peaks of the Frostbacks. Dorian hadn’t quite gotten a good glimpse of his face yet, but the elf’s skin was a lovely caramel color beneath the mystical blueish-white lines of his lyrium scars.

And his stance – there was something oddly... _familiar_ about the way he shifted from one foot to the other.

Why did this elf seem so familiar?

Dorian was still puzzling over this when Trevelyan finally turned to indicate him. “And this is Dorian Pavus. From Tevinter.”

Two pairs of eyes turned to him. Like Cullen’s, Hawke’s eyes were a warm amber color that was so common in Ferelden. Fenris’ eyes, however, were... were...

... _glowing green as grass in the sunlight._

Suddenly, Dorian Pavus’ world became unhinged.

Words would never suffice to describe how he felt. It felt like the Maker himself had struck him with the world’s largest hammer, rendering everything askew. Or like a powerful mage had just blasted with heart with a dozen needles of ice. Or like a blood vessel in his brain had just burst. He felt like he was dying. Convinced of it. Literally dying.

Green eyes regarded him blankly.

Maker – there wasn’t enough air in the world anymore. Even though he could feel his chest heaving as he desperately tried to get the air into his fucking lungs. He was scarcely aware of the concerned expressions of his friends as they watched him losing it. Barely aware of Cullen’s hand on his shoulder, or the very real fear in the Commander’s soft voice.

“Dorian? What’s wrong? Breathe, love. Try to breathe...”

The logical, detached portion of Dorian’s mind finally kicked in. _Impossible. They said he was dead. That can’t be him._

Except that it was. Unmistakeably, despite the ravages of time and the magic that had been thrust upon him. The same elf that Dorian had once known in Qarinus, only then he’d gone by a much different name.

Rilienus.

 


	4. Rilienus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Flashback time! This was actually the first chapter I wrote on this story. For that reason, it's probably my favorite. Or just because I ship the hell out of Dorian/Fenris. Sorry, not sorry. But I hope you enjoy it!

For anyone who knew Dorian Pavus, it was nearly impossible to believe that he’d been naïve and innocent once.

_Innocent_ did not signify _good._ As a child, Dorian could best be described as a scamp; at worst, a bully. Or as one senior enchanter wrote Magister Pavus from the Circle of Carastes, _Your son has become a terror in the halls, lording his superior magic over the other boys, who he believes are jealous of his prowess._

Once his son had been collected by the servants and returned to the ancestral home in Qarinus, Halward considered Dorian as the boy stood, nervously fidgeting, in his office. A part of him was secretly pleased that magic ran so strongly in his son’s blood. It almost made his insufferable marriage worth the price. But magic wasn’t enough. He wanted his son to be a good man.

Dorian was sullen and silent as his father chastised him. An appropriate punishment was meted out. And Dorian had to promise to never repeat the offensive behavior again.

In Tevinter, corporeal punishment of one’s children was not uncommon. However, in the Pavus household, use of the rod – even with slaves – was quite rare.

This scenario – Dorian expelled from a Circle, being chastised and punished in his father’s office – repeated itself on a regular basis.

Five years later, it was a fourteen-year-old Dorian who stood in his father’s office, expelled from the Circle of Vyrantium this time. At his wits end, Halward didn’t even know what to do with the boy anymore. Every year, Dorian’s actions became more appalling. At the rate he was going, it wouldn’t be long before the boy brought shame upon their house with his rebellious behavior. And, Maker, Halward couldn’t fathom what Dorian was even rebelling _against._ Growing up, Dorian had been denied nothing – no comfort, no desire. Pampered. Spoiled, even.

Halward studied his son. Dorian was the spitting image of Halward at that age – he possessed a fine-boned face dominated by a classic Tevinter nose, sharp gray eyes that reflected the ambient light, thick and unruly dark hair, and a lanky, bronze-skinned body still growing.

Halward’s heart wasn’t in the lecture this time. Punishment was most likely ineffective, though it was dispensed out of habit. Dorian made his pointless promise to behave. Then he sent Dorian out.

That afternoon, passing by the library, Dorian heard his parents. Arguing.

“– you’ve always been too soft on him.”

That was his mother.

“Aquinea, what do you suggest I do? Beat him like a dog?”

“If you don’t have the balls to do it, then I will.”

“Oh, for pity’s sake, Aquinea. Violence isn’t a solution.”

“Hal, he’s been kicked out of nearly every Circle in Tevinter! Soon there won’t be any place to send him.”

Halward heaved a heavy sigh. “We’ll keep him here for now. Maybe being home will be good for him. We’ll hire tutors to continue his education.”

“Tutors? _Kaffas,_ Halward, what good is an education if he’s not associated with a fucking Circle?”

As their voices escalated, Dorian wished he were anywhere but here. Far, far away. Moving quietly, he crept away. Down the corridor, out the doors of the East wing, across the veranda and down through the orchards.

He tried to ignore the angry bee-buzz feeling in his stomach as he used a stick to strike at the low-hanging branches of the trees, making it rain fruit. He hated the hostile tension in the air whenever his parents bickered, whether it was mild jabs with icy smiles at a party, or a shouting match in some part of the house where they either mistakenly thought that Dorian couldn’t hear, or they just didn’t care if he did.

Summer in Qarinus was stifling. Dorian lifted a bare arm to wipe the sweat from his brow. Headed past the creek that separated the Pavus estate from the Herathinos’ holdings. In a few moments, he was in the familiar glade where he and the neighbor’s son, Marcus, used to skip stones and catch frogs on lazy summer days when they had still been children. Lying back on the cool grass, he stared at the sky as he bit into an apple.

He’d just tossed the core aside when a shadow fell across his face. Peering up, he saw an elf.

Like the other slaves who worked in the fields, he wore a simple pair of thin breeches of unbleached linen, rolled up to the knees. Dark, silky hair stuck wetly to his neck and shoulders, and his slender chest, rising and falling with rapid breath, wore a sheen of sweat. Velvety tan skin. Surprise lit his wide green eyes as he looked down at Dorian, adjusting the broadfork slung against his shoulder.

Dorian vaguely recognized him – he was one of the Herathinos slaves. Although he couldn’t have been more than two years older than Dorian, since Dorian had last seen him, he’d developed from a scrawny and somewhat fragile-looking elvhen boy into a full grown man.

Flames – he was beautiful.

Mesmerized, Dorian stared up at him.

Uncertain, the slave stared back.

Then Dorian found his tongue. “You – what’s your name?”

The elf’s response was prompt. Dutiful. “Leto.”

Elves born into slavery didn’t have last names – only freeborn elves did. “Leto what?”

“Leto Rilienus.”

Dorian considered the slave for a moment, then extended an arm, hand bearing a golden fruit. “Pleased to meet you, Rilienus,” Dorian said, perfect white teeth flashing. “Want an apple?”

***

Dorian’s voice tripped down the corridor. “Father? I’m going next door to study with Marcus.”

The young Pavus was already turning to head towards the veranda that led outside to his mother’s rose gardens. Focused on the afternoon ahead, Dorian barely registered the call at his back – his father requesting that he be home in time for dinner. Father never said no. Not only because he approved of his son’s new-found dedication to his studies, but also because he and his wife had betrothed Dorian to the Herathinos girl since his birth.

Livia Herathinos: Dorian’s sworn arch-enemy ever since they were ten years old and Livia turned Dorian’s favorite barn cat – Blackie – into a block of ice. On purpose.

Veering past the fountain, Dorian stopped to retrieve the bottle he’d stashed in the grove earlier that morning. Then he continued out of the gardens, through the orchards, and down towards the creek.

In the glade, already waiting, was Leto.

As Dorian climbed up on the rock beside Leto, he jerked his chin at the two slender wooden poles leaning against the rock beside him. “What’s that?”

“Fishing poles,” Leto said.

Dorian bit down on his lip, thoughtful. “You want to... fish?”

“It’s something to do.” Green eyes twinkled with mirth. “You’re the one who suggested we do something different, remember?”

Dorian continued to chew on his lip. “It sounds... well, rather dull, actually.”

Leto laughed at him. Then indicated the item in Dorian’s hand. “What’s that?”

“It’s wine.”

“I can see _that.”_

Dorian lifted the bottle to study the label. “It’s called _Agreggio Pavali.”_

“It sounds expensive.”

“I’m sure it is,” Dorian said as he withdrew a small dwarven folding blade from his pocket and used it to pry the cork loose. “My father wouldn’t dream of drinking cheap wine.”

“We can drink it _while_ we fish,” Leto suggested.

Dorian huffed as he rolled his eyes. “I suppose...”

A smile twitched the corners of Leto’s lips. Then he handed one of the fishing poles to Dorian. Once he’d demonstrated to Dorian how to properly cast, they arranged themselves, lines in the water, and passed the wine between them, drinking straight from the bottle.

It was a mild winter day. Dorian wore a long coat over his robes that kept the chill off, but he liked the pleasant way the wine was warming him.

Dorian stared at the water, sluggishly churning towards the Nocen Sea. “How long is this going to take? For the fish to bite, I mean. And – do fish even have teeth? I don’t see how they _can_ possibly bite without teeth.”

It was Leto’s turn to roll his eyes. “Pavus, the fish are more likely to bite if you’re not making noise.”

“I was merely talking,” Dorian said indignantly. “Besides, I don’t think fish have ears, either.”

“Pavus, nothing about the way you talk is ‘merely.’ More like... excessively.”

At the elf’s teasing, Dorian pouted. “Oh, shut up, Rilienus. _Ugh._ I don’t know why I bother coming here.”

Leto laughed softly. “Because you like me. Now – pass the wine.”

_Because you like me._ Dorian jolted. Clack of glass as the bottle’s neck banged into his teeth. He was terribly and painfully aware of the blood rushing to his face. Aware of the elf’s green eyes sparkling at him, the enticing curve of his lips, and the accidental brush of his fingers over Dorian’s as he took back the bottle.

Mesmerized, Dorian watched as Leto tilted the bottle back. Then watched the apple in his long throat as it slid up and down.

Maker, he was... sexy.

Dorian had known from a rather young age that he liked boys. But he’d never had the opportunity to explore these feelings. And he’d never felt anything quite this intense before. An almost inexplicable yearning.

It had been nearly six months since he’d returned home and made friends with the slave. Six months that they had been meeting in secret. Not playing – no, with Dorian fifteen now, and Leto two years his senior, they were too old for that. Instead, they usually went on rambles, drank stolen liquor, played cards, and talked.

Six months that Dorian had harbored his secret feelings for Leto.

“So,” Dorian said as Leto passed the near-empty bottle back. “Any gossip at the Herathinos house?”

Leto thought for a moment. “Marcus has a girl he likes,” he finally revealed. “Except she comes from a less prominent family, so the master and mistress are not pleased.”

From what Dorian could tell, not much _did_ please Magister Herathinos.

Strangely – or not so strangely – they never talked about the fairer sex. Curiously, he asked, “Do you...?”

“Do I what?”

“Have someone you like.”

One dark eyebrow quirked up. Reluctantly, he admitted, “I... yes. There is... someone.”

_Oh._ Silly of him to have hoped otherwise. “What’s she like?”

Leto studied him for a long moment. Thoughtful. Assessing. “Hmm. Well. I’d say rather spoiled. Arrogant. Rebellious. Noble, wealthy. Oh, and he’s absolutely gorgeous, even if he does talk too much.”

Dorian froze. Suddenly Leto’s face was close to his. Breath warm, misty, and smelling of wine against Dorian’s lips. There the elf stopped, waiting for Dorian to pull away, to protest, to resist.

_Oh Maker. He’s going to kiss me._

Dorian didn’t resist.

His heart was drumming a strange rhythm as Leto’s lips brushed against his. Shifted. As noses bumped, Leto adjusted his head before kissing Dorian again.

Light elvhen fingers explored his face as they continued to kiss. Then two pairs of hands were wandering as Leto’s tongue flicked tentatively out, seeking and finding his.

Kissing a man – it was better than anything Dorian had ever imagined. He could feel his whole body tingling, and a tension pooling way down deep inside his body as his blood rushed south.

This. He’d been waiting for this his entire life – he just hadn’t known it.

Dorian was breathless when Leto finally drew back. Then Dorian followed the slave’s gaze as it dropped to Dorian’s lap, and was mortified to note that his winter robes were doing absolutely nothing to conceal his state of arousal.

Dorian questioned that morning’s decision to forgo small clothes.

Heat rose to Dorian’s face again as Leto’s gaze remained affixed to Dorian’s lap.

“Flames,” Dorian muttered. “Stop staring.”

Leto’s eyes snapped up. “That you’re... just from my kissing you...” Leto paused, and swallowed hard. “That’s... hot.”

Dorian’s eyes widened.

As Leto reached for him, Dorian let the elf slide him down off the rock so they were both lying in the grass, bodies entwining as they began kissing again.

As Leto shifted closer, Dorian felt something hard pressing insistently against his hip.

_Maker... that’s his... oh._

Apparently, Dorian wasn’t the only one who found their kissing arousing.

And, for the first time ever, Dorian realized that losing his virginity was not only a distinct possibility, but also a desirable one.

Then Leto’s hand was on Dorian’s thigh. He squeezed once before letting his hand slide up. Landed between Dorian’s thighs, where his fingers easily curled around Dorian through the fabric of his robes. Breath hitching, Dorian clawed the grass.

_Oh gods. He’s actually touching it._

Still kissing, breathing heavy, Dorian and Leto inexpertly stroked each other through their clothing. Flames, it felt marvelous. Dorian couldn’t help it – in less than a minute, the sensations overwhelmed him. Waves of pleasure surging and crashing through him, sweeping him away. Stars in his eyes as his hips instinctively snapped up into Leto’s hand.

_Maker, yes. Yes, yes, a thousand times yes._

Then, kiss broken, Dorian felt Leto’s warm breath, colored by sound, as he panted into Dorian’s ear. Under his hand, Dorian felt the elf twitch and throb as he reached his own peak.

After, they lay on the grass, staring up at the sky, neither one speaking.

Then Dorian heard him chuckle. Cross, he frowned. “Something amusing, Rilienus?”

Leto shifted. His green eyes sparkled with amusement as a wicked smile curved his lips. “Indeed, Pavus,” he said. “I think I’ve finally discovered the most effective method to make you shut up.”

***

The smell of hay. Horse. Through the slats of the stable, a light breeze wafted in, carrying with it the scents of honeysuckle and spring blossoms. Nicker of horse as Leto leaned back against the stall door, resting his hands upon the dry, weathered wood, and Dorian dropped down to his knees before him. Flash of wicked white teeth against cinnamon skin as he reached for the laces on Leto’s dusty breeches.

Soft huff of breath as Dorian’s long, elegant fingers slipped into Leto’s small clothes, teasing a trail up and down before Dorian leaned forward, hands on Leto’s hips, to take the elf into his mouth.

Leto let his free hand fall to Dorian’s head. Raked his fingers through Dorian’s heavy, dark hair, as Dorian made quiet little noises of pleasure.

Dorian loved everything about the elf. The way he ran his fingers through Dorian’s hair. The way his eyes glowed green as grass in the sunlight. The way his voice – all velvet and thunderstorms – vibrated in Dorian’s ear, making him shudder with carnal delight. The way his body felt under Dorian’s hands, the taste of his skin, and the delicious resistance of his masculine hardness against Dorian’s tongue.

For months, their clandestine meetings had included sex – slow, furious, exploratory. Trial and error. They had managed to escape notice.

Until now.

Dorian never did learn how their secret was uncovered. Perhaps they’d been spotted by one of the slaves. Or a friend of the family.

The stable door banged open and Halward Pavus himself stepped in.

The boys tore apart. But despite the haste with which Dorian scrambled to his feet as Leto shoved himself back into his pants, it was too late.

_“Dorian Alexander Pavus.”_

He’d never seen his father so angry.

A few strides brought Halward between them. Leto trembled as Lord Pavus’ gaze rained fire down upon him.“You,” he growled. “Get back to your master.”

Leto’s gaze met Dorian’s for only a second before he scrambled to obey, fleeing from the stables.

Halward spun. “And you –” Dorian screeched as his father seized him roughly by the ear and began to drag him bodily towards the house. “You are in so much trouble, young man.”

***

This time, Dorian sat in a chair in his father’s office while both of his parents stared down at him, their expressions a mix of anger, shame, and disappointment.

His mother’s lips twisted into an angry, thin line. “Dorian. Just what in all of Thedas were you _thinking?”_ A noise of exasperation escaped her. “Really, Dorian. A slave? I thought we taught you better than that.”

Dorian stared down at the thick rug on the floor.

“Really, Aquinea,” his father said. “He’s a fifteen year old boy. I doubt that ‘thinking’ was even a factor in this whole scenario.”

His mother’s voice grew sharp. “A _male_ slave, Halward.”

Halward sighed. It wasn’t unheard of in Tevinter for masters to make use of their favored slaves that way. But not in their house. And it was completely unacceptable that he’d caught his son dallying with the neighbor’s slave. If word got out, the scandal would be atrocious.

“I know,” Halward said. “But it could be worse. At least we don’t have to worry about the possibility of the boy impregnating one of the female slaves.”

As the heat rose to his face, Dorian hung his head lower.

_“Kaffas,_ Halward. Are you really going to defend what he’s done?”

“Of course not,” Halward said stiffly. Then his gaze slipped back down to the boy in the chair. “Dorian.”

Dorian reluctantly lifted his gaze.

“What you’ve done is not acceptable,” Halward said. “Whatever... arrangement you had with that slave will not continue. And your mother and I have decided that the best course of action would be to send you to Minrathous, to finish your studies in the Order of Argent.”

Dorian’s eyes widened. “That isn’t fair! You can’t make me go!”

The lines of anger became more firmly entrenched in Halward’s face. “I’m your father, Dorian. And you _will_ do what you’re told.”

At that authoritative tone, any further protest Dorian had died on his lips.

“Now – you will go to your room, and stay there until either your mother or I give you permission to come out. And you will _not_ see that slave again.”

Dorian pushed up angrily from the chair. Stalked over to the door. Then, in a fit of defiance, turned to shout at them. “I hate you! I hate you both!”

Then he ran.

***

The first time Dorian decided to run away from home, he was fifteen years old.

He waited until everyone in the house was asleep. Packed a bag with clean small clothes, his journal, his personal savings, and some other essentials. Cast a spell of invisibility before sneaking quietly out of his room.

His heart was rattling dangerously in his ribcage, but he managed to slip undetected, without incident, out of his parents’ house, through the gardens and orchards, across the creek, and finally into the slave house at the northwestern corner of the Herathinos property.

He paused for a moment, letting his eyes adjust to the gloom. One lantern burned in the far corner. He scanned the occupied beds until he found the familiar elf.

Letting go of his spell, he crouched down by Leto’s bed. Awake, Leto’s eyes grew wide, then he sat up quick.

As he did so, the blanket slipped down to his hips, revealing his bare chest. Dorian had never seen him in a bed before, and – if the circumstances had been different – would have marveled at the sight.

“Pavus,” Leto said, voice a nervous whisper. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m here to see you, obviously.”

In the nearby beds, some of the other slaves stirred. Murmur of panicked voices as they realized that there was a human in their midst.

“Leto!” came a voice tinged with alarm. “What have you done?”

Leto’s eyes snapped over to the owner of that voice. Following his gaze, Dorian saw an older elvhen woman, green-eyed, fair-skinned, with hair as red as a forge’s fire.

“Mother, I...” Leto began, then trailed off as his eyes darted briefly back to Dorian. “He’s the one I told you about.”

Dorian blinked. _He... he told his mother about me...?_

Leto’s mother turned to Dorian. Completely aghast. “But, Leto... he’s... he’s a _magister’s son.”_

Rustle of sheets, then one of the older elves jumped from his bed. “I’m telling the master.”

“Elgren!” Leto’s mother protested. “Don’t! You’ll only get the boy in trouble!”

The elf scowled. “Better him than the rest of us for keepin’ quiet.”

Only later – years later – did it occur to Dorian that, as a magister’s son, he could have ordered the elf named Elgren to shut his mouth and sit his ass back down, and the slave would have obeyed unthinkingly.

And everything would have been utterly different.

Instead, as Elgren scuttled out, Leto spun back to Dorian, eyes even wider. “If the master comes... I don’t want you to get into any more trouble! You should go. Quickly!”

“Not without...” Dorian trailed off, suddenly unable to speak the words he’d come to say.

_Will you run away with me?_

“Pavus?”

Instead, Dorian’s next words came out in a rush. “My parents. They won’t let me see you anymore. They’re sending me away to school. In Minrathous.”

Something changed in Leto’s expression. Pain. Heartbreak. Helplessness. It was terrible.

Dorian’s lips parted. The words were there, waiting on his tongue, stinging like nettles. Why couldn’t he force them out? Why was he so frightened?

_Will you run away with me?_

“Leto...”

At the sound of his name on Dorian’s lips, Leto suddenly sparked like a knife striking flint. Hand scrabbling out to latch onto his and squeezing tightly. Desperately.

“I... I will wait for you, Dorian,” he whispered, voice strained. “Don’t... forget me. Promise you’ll come back for me.”

_Say it, Dorian Pavus! Ask him! Ask him to run away with you!_

The door to the slave house banged open and two guardsmen stepped in. Eyes falling on Dorian, they pushed forward.

_Kaffas!_ They’d been caught. It was too late. Running away – with or without the slave – was no longer an option.

Dorian whipped his gaze back to Leto. “I promise,” he swore, his voice breaking. “I promise I’ll come back for you. _I will always come back for you.”_

Dorian leaned up. Hands reaching out to cradle Leto’s face, drawing him closer. Lips crashing together in one final, desperate, passionate and love-infused kiss. A whimper of despair in Leto’s throat as he felt himself drowning, drowning, in Dorian Pavus’ kiss.

Suddenly, the elves ceased their soft murmurings, and the only sound in the room was the clink of chain and clank of metal plate as the guardsmen advanced.

The kiss was broken as the guardsmen tore them apart. Each of them seized by the arm with rough growls, orders barked – Dorian forced up to his feet, Leto jerked out of the bed. Then the boys were led out of the slave house. Over his shoulder, Dorian met Leto’s eyes one last time as Dorian was dragged in the opposite direction, away from him, towards the Pavus house.

***

On his father’s desk sat the knapsack Dorian had packed to run away.

In his father’s eyes: disappointment.

After Lord Herathinos’ guardsman had dragged Dorian to his front door, where he had explained the situation to Dorian’s distraught parents, Halward had locked him in his room. With a magical seal on the door, making a second attempt at escape impossible. There, Dorian had spent the next half hour listening to his parents arguing in their bedroom. Their voices so loud that he couldn’t block them out.

\- _they know, what is everyone going to think? -_

_\- talk to Herathinos tomorrow about that slave -_

_\- what happens when you’re too lenient on the boy -_

_\- if we marry him off as soon as possible -_

He had been left there, forgotten, until the following afternoon. No one had come to bring him breakfast, or empty the chamberpot. Only much later did his father come to unseal the door, and bade Dorian to follow.

“Dorian,” Halward said wearily. “I’m sorry that it’s come to this. I hope you realize that what you’ve done is wrong, and that actions have consequences.”

Alarmed, Dorian stared. “Father...?”

“You disobeyed us, Dorian. You were told to stay in your room. And that you were not allowed to see that slave again. And yet...” Halward’s gaze fell poignantly to Dorian’s knapsack. “So we have made arrangements with Magister Herathinos to... get rid of that slave.”

It was if an icy hand had pinned Dorian to the chair. “Father? What do you mean?”

Halward’s expression was stone. “He’s dead, Dorian.”

At that moment, to Dorian, it felt like the entire world had become unhinged.

_Dead? No. Rilienus... no. He can’t be... gone. He can’t be dead! No!_

“Now,” his father ordered. “Come here.”

He was moving somehow. Out of the chair and towards his father. Heartbeat too rapid, hammering in his chest. Numb with grief, dead inside. He didn’t even have the will to resist.

Halward picked up the rod from the shelf – the one he rarely used to punish the slaves when there was no other option. “Hands on the desk.”

Dorian obeyed. The surface of the wood was polished and cool, almost soothing beneath his splayed fingers. Chest heaving with silent sobs as his father took hold of the seat of his pants, pulling them down.

“Forgive me, my son,” Halward said.

And lifted the rod.  
  


 


	5. The Elf and the Champion

_Rilienus._

Beside him, Cullen continued his quiet litany. “Breathe, Dorian. Deep breaths...”

Trevelyan’s brow creased as he fretted. When he spoke, he sounded far younger than he actually was. “Should we... get a healer?”

Once the initial shock wore off, Dorian was plunged into a warm ocean of joy. _Oh, by the Blessed Maker, he’s alive!_ Rilienus... alive... it was electrifying. He’d never dreamed... never _hoped._.. never believed it possible that he would ever see his true love’s face once again. It was impossibly miraculous.

All of a sudden, he could feel the air in his lungs again. His heart was hammering away like the Iron Bull’s sword against a dragon, but at least he no longer felt like he might actually _die._

This feeling of pure joy – Dorian had felt this before, so many years ago. He’d never expected to feel it ever again.

It was beautiful. And perfect.

And, as with all things that are beautiful and perfect, it was fleeting.

Dorian became aware of several things at once.

First – that the Commander was at his side, his hand gently, lovingly, and protectively massaging Dorian’s shoulder. And by the worried crackle in his voice, and the emotion in his eyes, Dorian had frightened the shit out of him.

Second – that he’d caused a _most unpleasant scene._ Cullen wasn’t the only one he’d managed to upset. Leliana had remained characteristically calm and collected, but everyone else – the Inquisitor, Varric, Josephine, and even Cassandra – was staring at him, each of them tense, each of them brimming over with concern.

And third – that Leto was regarding him with that same blank look. Yes, now it was tinged with a hint of confusion, but was, still, indubitably remote. As if Dorian were a perfect stranger.

That didn’t seem quite right. At least until Dorian’s mind bubbled up a small memory from that drunken night in the tavern when Varric had recounted his story about his time battling at the Champion’s side in Kirkwall, along with the elvhen ex-slave named Fenris.

_Yeah, Fenris had it rough. Spent years on the run from his master, who sent slaver after slaver to ‘reclaim’ him. Guess he figured that those lyrium markings were worth the cost. Even though the price of them was Fenris’ memories. When Danarius did that ritual, the process was so traumatic that Fenris no longer remembered anything that had happened to him before that. Not his family, his home in Seheron – nothing. All that he was before – just completely wiped away. Gone._

Realization hit Dorian like a giant sack of boulders.

_He doesn’t remember me._

Another thing that Dorian had taken away from that conversation with Varric – that the Champion of Kirkwall and his elf were _happy_ together. That they _loved_ each other. That they’d been a couple for nearly four years.

Four years seemed like an impossibly long time to Dorian. Something that he’d never expected to have with another man. With Leto, they’d only had a handful of months. The longest relationship he’d ever had. Since then, before Cullen, almost all of his ‘relationships’ had lasted one night. And he’d known better than to expect _more._

Dorian shifted slightly, out from under his lover’s touch. “No need to be alarmed. I just swallowed a bug.” he said, his voice surprisingly steady as he lied through his teeth again. “I’m fine now, really.”

That flimsy excuse seemed acceptable to most. In particular, to the Inquisitor, who visibly relaxed. Less so to Cullen, perhaps, who crossed his arms, the worry still lingering in his eyes.

“Good,” Trevelyan said. He turned back to the visitors with a smile. “Serah Hawke. If you and your companion would follow me? Josephine has arranged some refreshments.”

***

As soon as Fenris reached the room he’d be sharing with Hawke, he tossed his cloak aside, dropped down on the bed, and immediately fell asleep.

When the door opened later, Fenris was instantly awake again. Instinct propelled him so that he was now sitting up in the bed, hand on the hilt of his sword, ready to fight. A natural defense mechanism he’d developed after years of being hunted by Danarius’ hirelings, and had never unlearned in the four years since Danarius’ demise.

As Hawke stepped in, all the tension drained from Fenris’ body. In Hawke’s hands, two steaming mugs, one of which he passed to Fenris. Then, with his free hand, he playfully ruffled Fenris’ hair, flashing a grin. “Sleepyhead.”

Fenris grumbled something incoherent. Then lifted the mug, suspiciously sniffing. Aromatic, it smelled of spices, apples and something astringent. “What’s this?”

Hawke lifted his own mug to his lips as he slid gracefully into the nearby chair. “Skyhold specialty, apparently,” he said. “Varric promised that it works as well as a restorative.” He took another sip. “You should try it – it’s good.”

Fenris reluctantly drank. It tasted like a distant memory – something that he couldn’t quite pin down like a butterfly on a velvet board. Something... lost. Like apples in Autumn. An orchard of golden fruit. _Something._ Mixed into it, he recognized a hint of nutmeg and a liberal dash of cinnamon. Below that, there was an undertaste of something herbal. Just a touch of bitter that snapped over his tongue.

As he drank, he felt it warming his body. Uncurling his toes.

From his sprawled out position in the chair, Hawke smirked at the pleasure unfurling across his lover’s face.

Careful not to spill his mug, Fenris shifted on the bed so that he was facing Hawke. Tucked his lean legs beneath him. “So... this Inquisitor. What did he want?”

Hawke’s lips twitched into a genuine smile. _That’s my Fenris. Always direct and to the point._ “Nothing much. Just a little help saving the world from its imminent doom and destruction,” Hawke said lightly. “And, of course, he wanted to know everything I could tell him about Corypheus.”

Fenris softly snorted. “He was dead. We killed him.”

Hawke’s eyes were bright and laughing. “Yes, I did mention that.”

“And?”

A serious edge appeared in Hawke’s gaze. “Well. The Inquisitor confirmed that the Wardens have disappeared. He also believes that Corypheus is somehow involved in their disappearance.” Hawke paused, a finger thoughtfully tracing over the rim of his mug. “We came to help, so I suggested he meet with a certain Warden friend of ours in Crestwood.”

Fenris was still for a moment, deep in thought. “You’re really planning on dragging Alistair into this?”

Hawke made a loose, lilting shrug. “You know he’s been looking into this. Perhaps he’s found something useful. Besides, he’s the only person around here with any actual experience of saving the world.”

Fenris grunted softly.

“So,” Hawke said slowly, “the Inquisitor and I will be heading out for Crestwood tomorrow.”

Fenris became still again. Hawke could almost literally see it when the meaning of those words truly sank into his lover’s brain. “What?” Fenris practically screeched at him. “You are _not_ leaving me here, Hawke.”

Hawke bit back a sigh. He hadn’t wanted to bring Fenris to Skyhold. Things were about to get _dangerous._ Men were going to die. Hawke certainly harbored no intentions of allowing his beloved to sacrifice himself, no matter how good the cause. But there had been no talking the stubborn elf out of staying behind. Hawke had capitulated when Fenris made his threat.

_If you leave, Hawke, I will not be here when you return._

“We’re going in stealth. Ride to Crestwood, find Alistair, and get out,” Hawke explained. “Not even Varric is going.” Hawke paused to offer Fenris a conciliatory smile. “I won’t be gone long, Fenris. Just consider this your opportunity to catch up with our favorite dwarf. Go drink in the tavern. Play some cards. Try relaxing for a change. Trust me – relaxing is fun.”

Fenris chewed on his bottom lip. Crestwood wasn’t really that far away... and Hawke had clearly made up his mind. Convincing Hawke to change his mind was harder than trying to convince an irate dragon not to _eat_ you. And he knew he couldn’t get away with playing the _emotional blackmail_ card again so soon.

Fenris sighed. “Fine. Drinking and cards with Varric in the tavern it is,” he conceded, albeit grudgingly.

Hawke’s lips twitched up again. “Just don’t expect _me_ to pay your debts if you start losing at cards again.”

Fenris snorted.

Hawke lifted his mug. Took another sip. Regarded Fenris. Despite the fact that they’d known each other for ten years, Hawke still never tired of looking at him. He was so lovely to look at. Sleek and graceful and strong. That beautiful, heart-stopping and breath-stealing face, with those sensually inviting lips, and those eyes that were green seas where a man could easily drown, and not even care if he died.

_If only,_ Hawke thought, and not for the first time, _if only it didn’t hurt him when I touch him._

It wasn’t as if their relationship was... _chaste._ Over the years, Hawke had developed some methods to lessen the painful sensations that touching Fenris’ lyrium scars caused him, but still... sex for Fenris was problematic. But, of course, no relationship was perfect. Especially between two men...

...which reminded him. Of the spark of surprise he’d felt upon seeing – of all people – Cullen Rutherford, quite publicly, expressing affection for another man. And that man...

As Hawke chuckled, Fenris glanced at him quizzically. “Something amusing, Hawke?”

“You know, I never had any idea that Cullen’s tastes were so... unconventional.”

“I never thought about it,” Fenris said.

_Of course you haven’t._ Given the circumstances, sex wasn’t something that Fenris spent a lot of time thinking about. Before he’d started flirting with Fenris, Hawke had been certain that for the ex-slave, sex was just another terrible thing that had been _done to him_. And he’d certainly never imagined that Fenris would someday show up at his house and toss him up against the wall as easily as if he had been made out of paper.

Fenris frowned slightly. “That man. Cullen’s lover... what was his name?”

“Pavus,” Hawke recalled. “Dorian Pavus.”

“He seems... odd.”

_If Fenris thinks you’re weird, then you’re really fucking weird._ Hawke laughed softly. “Yes, that’s probably putting it mildly,” he agreed. “I know his type. He reminded me of Lord Otranto’s son. Complete drama queen.”

Fenris considered that. Tapped slightly long nails against the mug still in his hands. Then his eyes narrowed. “He’s from Tevinter,” he muttered. “Don’t tell me he’s a _magister.”_

In his brief conversation with Varric, Hawke had gleaned a few facts about this Dorian Pavus. “He’s a mage from Tevinter, but not a magister.”

“I don’t trust him.”

Hawke pressed a hand against his own chest in feigned shock. “What? Fenris? You not trusting someone because he’s a mage? Why, I never!”

Amusement curved Fenris’ lips. “Shut up, Hawke,” he murmured, but there was no venom in it, only affection.

Hawke laughed again. “Still,” he mused as he sank further back into his chair. “I’ll have to credit Cullen for having such good taste. The man _is_ gorgeous.”

Fenris would have denied it if he could. Since they had started talking about this Pavus fellow, Fenris had started feeling agitated, and somehow... itchy. There was something... familiar about him. It was possible that Fenris had seen him before. Not in the Magisterium, obviously, but perhaps at some party in Tevinter. But no matter how much Fenris teased his memory, like with the scent of the cider in his hand, he couldn’t pin it down. Something else... lost.

Brooding, Fenris just grumbled in response. “That man is clearly insane. No doubt he’ll crack. I wouldn’t be surprised if he turned into an abomination tomorrow.”

Hawke slightly lifted one eyebrow. But then he just smiled. “That’s my Fenris,” he said. “Such a charming man known for his great faith in humanity.”

***

Falling out of love was a luxury that Dorian Pavus never realized existed.

When he first saw Leto again – _Fenris now, no longer Leto, no longer that boy, no longer_ mine – in the courtyard of Skyhold, Dorian realized that it would have been the same, at any time. _Leto, Leto_ – the one he’d always wanted. _I loved you when I was just a boy._ They’d both been so young. So foolishly optimistic. Unaware of just how callous and cruel the world could be.

After his parents had sent him to the Order of Argent in Minrathous, Dorian had tried to be good. For several months, he had dedicated himself to his studies. Didn’t bully anyone. No more magic duels in the corridors. Amongst themselves, the senior enchanters referred to him as “the quiet one.” Dorian had learned his lesson all too well about the _consequences of his actions._

Dorian _tried._ Truly, he did. But there was no escaping the guilt and grief that tattered him, always washing over him, fresh and vivid, in quiet moments when he least expected it. Despair was poor company. Eventually it drove him to seek refuge in the bottle – Dorian’s first real bender was at the tender age of sixteen – and to an infamous brothel in the elvhen slums, where Dorian tried to lose himself in the arms of the pretty elvhen whores. Strange how the whores he fucked all had tan skin and dark hair, and green eyes when he could find them. He didn’t even bother trying to defend his actions to himself. Not then, and not later. He’d spent years devoted to chasing after glimpses of Leto in other men. Years of fucking Leto’s shadow.

Even now, there was nothing he could do about it, as he waited in a corner of the War Room, watching Cullen, one elegant hand resting on the edge of the table, the other sweeping across the back of his neck, as he conferred with Leliana and Josephine in the Inquisitor’s absence.

Cullen Rutherford. Tall. Strapping. A full-blooded human male, with hair and eyes as gold as wheat and honey, and skin pale as the moon. He couldn’t have been more different from the other men in Dorian’s past. And yet...

_Yet it feels the same._

He hadn’t meant to feel this way.

He hadn’t meant to _feel_.

Dorian hadn’t been waiting long before the advisers concluded their meeting. As the ladies swished out of the room – Leliana nodding, Josephine smiling – Cullen remained behind the war table. Fingers tracing along the frayed edge of the map of Thedas, somewhere between the Arbor Wilds and the Sundered Sea. Watching Dorian.

It had only been a few days since the Champion and Fenris had arrived at Skyhold. Since then, Dorian had been doing his best to avoid contact with everyone, including Cullen, usually by hiding in his room and not answering the door, when he wasn’t actually lurking in the library.

Or the wine cellars.

Of course he’d drowned his sorrows in drink. What else was one supposed to do when they saw a ghost?

Dorian closed the door to the War Room, then leaned against it. “You wished to see me?”

Cullen’s fingers slowed to a stop. “When I sent that messenger – I didn’t think you’d actually come.”

In his voice, Dorian could hear his relief. He’d really believed Dorian wouldn’t come. Though, Dorian mused, it wouldn’t have been the first time that he’d had opted to run away from the Commander.

Dorian tried to smile. To pretend that everything all all right. “And why wouldn’t I?”

Cullen was silent, giving Dorian a very long look. Dorian expected him to say something. To ask about that horrible scene he’d caused in front of everyone. But Cullen surprised him.

“I think we should...” Cullen began, but then trailed off, a slight frown forming on his lips. “No, I wanted to ask you – I know you have your own room – and I know that you’re a private man, so I do not wish to... _impinge_ on your privacy – but I think you should stay with me.”

For a moment, Dorian was floored. An adventure in mutual domesticity was _not_ what he had been expecting. Not from Cullen. Not from any man. _Ever._ “You’re suggesting that we, what? Live together? As a couple?”

Cullen’s voice grew soft. “Is that idea so terrible?”

_Yes! No..._ Fuck, he didn’t know. Letting his head fall back against the door, Dorian crossed his arms, regarding Cullen, still on the other side of the war table. “I like my room,” Dorian said, merely for the sake of argument. “Your room has a hole in the roof, for Andraste’s sake. It’s always cold. And there’s pigeon shit everywhere.” He huffed. “If you think that I’d find those living arrangements acceptable, let me assure you that you’re quite mistaken.”

Cullen stared down at the table, as if considering the pieces. Corypheus’ forces here. Red Templars there. Inquisition spies everywhere. Like it was a grand game of chess, and all the players merely pawns.

After a moment, Cullen lifted his gaze. In his eyes, resignation. “Then I could stay with you.”

_He is persistent – I’ll give him that._ But Cullen’s persistence was equally matched by Dorian’s stubbornness. “In my room? It’s too small. You’d just...” Dorian trailed off, considering what he’d about to say. _You’d just get tired of me all the quicker and break my heart._ Instead, he said, “We’d just get in each others’ way.”

Cullen attempted a smile. “It would be... cozy.”

Something bubbled up in Dorian. The more Cullen _pushed_ , the more Dorian wanted to resist. He was just built that way – he couldn’t help it. Even if it meant lashing out at those he cared about – although those he cared about were few and far between.

_“Kaffas!_ Like I need you to... _watch_ over me. Like I’m some sort of child! I’m a thirty year old man. I’ve practically been on my own since I left home at the age of fifteen. _I can make my own decisions._ I’m not one of your prissy, little, frightened Southern mages. I don’t need a fucking Templar controlling my every fucking move!”

He was shouting. Maker, Dorian didn’t know _what_ was the matter with him. He saw the effect of his words on Cullen. As if he’d just tossed acid in the man’s face. Flashes of anger, despair, _hurt._

_I’ve driven him away,_ Dorian thought, as his heart sank. _This is the part where he leaves._

But then Cullen’s expression smoothed out. He stared at Dorian for a moment before he moved. Quickly skirted the table, striding forward boldly until he stood before the mage. Reached out and seized Dorian by the arms, his eyes somehow both sad and warm.

“Dorian, I... I know that you’ve been drinking again. I... you misunderstand me. I have no wish to control you – or tell you what to do. But don’t expect me to be with you and not worry. I’ve seen fine men go down that path you’re on. I don’t want to see you destroy yourself with drink. I want to take care of you.” His last words came out as a whispered plea. _“Please, Dorian. Let me.”_

All of Dorian’s anger swirled away in an instant. He felt unsteady on his feet, as if a giant sinkhole had just opened up beneath Skyhold, threatening to suck him down into the abyss.

His heart – it was melting.

Shaky fingers twined into the familiar down of Cullen’s stole as Dorian leaned forward, letting his forehead rest on Cullen’s shoulder. Breath hitching as Cullen’s strong arms wrapped themselves more tightly about him, holding him close, keeping him safe, keeping him from falling down into the abyss.

***

It wasn’t as if Fenris had been going out of his way to avoid the mage from Tevinter. No, Skyhold was large enough that Fenris could go about his business and never see the same face twice in one day. Not that he had a lot of business since Hawke and the Inquisitor had left for Crestwood. Mostly drinking in the Herald’s Rest with Varric and playing cards with some of the dwarf’s friends. Or some friendly sparring with the Iron Bull and his lieutenant in the training yard. Sometimes he saw Cullen there, drilling his men. And sometimes – whenever Fenris stopped to pour a few ladles of water down his throat, or to wipe the sweat off his brow with a rag – he’d catch the Commander watching him with a strange little look. But the man never came close to talk with him.

He suspected it had something to do with that mage. Fenris still couldn’t figure out why Dorian Pavus seemed so familiar to him. _Fucking annoying._ Fenris tried not to think about it.

One person he was actively avoiding was the pale Spirit boy, who always seemed to appear late at night, whenever Fenris was alone, brooding about his past in Tevinter. As if he needed to hear someone voicing his thoughts about _that._

_Blood licks the chains. Knives made of fire, carving flesh. No voice to scream anymore. Mother – it hurts. No, forget... forget..._

Half the time the Spirit didn’t even make any sense. The last encounter in particular. The boy hunched in the window of Fenris’ bedroom, murmuring.

_Like citrus peels and caramelized copper. Hands pinned down in the mud, skin like velvet, crown of princely flowers, eyes like melted silver in the midday sun. He is the moon, and I am the tides of the sea._

Fenris had contemplated kicking Cole right out the window and not worrying about where he landed. Or just running him through with a sword. Instead, Fenris growled at him, _What in the Void are you on about?_

Cole had cocked his head as if listening to something distant. Then the sweeping dip of his hat as he turned back. _The boy who died inside. He would have come back for you, Leto. But he didn’t know._

As Fenris rushed forward, growling, hand reaching for the hilt of his sword, Cole quickly vanished.

To ensure that he didn’t think about that too closely, he drank more than usual that night. Fortunately, he’d already stashed a few bottles away in his room so he didn’t even need to leave its comfort to get drunk.

One afternoon, the day before Hawke and Trevelyan were due to return, Fenris did run across the mage in the gardens. Sitting on a bench, warming himself in the sun, and reading a book.

Focused on his reading, the mage hadn’t seen him. Fenris turned to continue on his way.

Except he’d felt that same familiarity. It nagged at him. Tugged him.

Brooding, determined, Fenris turned and walked straight up to the mage. As Fenris’ shadow fell across his page, he glanced up.

Dorian’s heart – no, every internal organ in his body – did a strange, terrifying lurch. He didn’t know he managed it, but when he spoke, his tone was polite, if not a touch casual. “Is there something I can do for you... Fenris, isn’t it?”

Fenris didn’t mince words. “Have we met before?” he demanded. Then added, as if it weren’t clear, “I mean in Tevinter.”

Dorian slowly closed his book. “Your old master was Magister Danarius, wasn’t it?” he replied, quite calmly. “He wasn’t exactly in our circle. Him being a blood mage, and all.”

Just the mention of his old master’s name was enough to grate Fenris’ nerves. Scoffing, he snarled. “As if _you_ don’t use blood magic.”

Dorian bristled. He’d done many things in his life – sold his body for coin, severely injured other boys in duels, made a wholehearted attempt to kill himself slowly with drink, even dabbled in necromancy to the point that he was _good_ at it – but blood magic, _never._ “I am no blood mage. Nor would I ever become one.”

Green eyes narrowed. “No man is safe from temptation. Mages more than most.”

Dorian felt his anger rising, hot and sharp as new swords in the Undercroft. “I suppose you would know,” Dorian said haughtily. “After all, you are fucking a mage, aren’t you?”

Elvhen ears flattened against his head. Then the elf was all wolf, snarling fiercely. _“You_ don’t get to speak about Hawke like that!”

_Defending his man._ All of a sudden, mixed with his indignation and anger was a sickening sea of jealousy, sloshing inside his skin. Tossing his book aside, Dorian surged to his feet, immediately stepping up to Fenris, staring down at the elf. His stance was aggressive – shoulders back, chest forward, spine straightening him to his full height, intended to intimidate.

Fenris did not back down.

Cold, Dorian spat, “I will speak about anyone I want, however I want, including your _fallen fucking Champion.”_

Flames of rage roared to life in Fenris’ eyes as the lyrium beneath his skin began to glow. _“Futue te, magus.”_

***

Varric was writing at a table in the tavern when Scout Harding burst through the door. Her eyes quickly scanned half the room before skittering to a stop on the rogue. “Ser Tethras! Your friend and Ser Pavus are fighting in the gardens!”

Chairs skidded back as not only Varric, but Bull, Sera, and just about everyone else in the room jumped to their feet in a mad race to reach the gardens.

In the center of the gardens, Dorian and Fenris circled each other, tense, predatory. _Like two wyverns fighting over territory,_ Varric thought. As they prowled, they screamed at each other in Tevene, hurling rage-filled words that no one could understand. And each man was _glowing_ – Fenris’ markings brightly blue, and Dorian in a miasma of magical energy that made the air crackle dangerously, and caused the hairs on the backs of everyone’s neck to rise.

Varric and the others pulled up short at the edge of the audience that had gathered at the fracas, giving the combatants a wide berth. Eyes drifting, he caught sight of Cassandra in the crowd. It didn’t escape his notice how white were the knuckles on the hand that squeezed the pommel of her sword. “Seeker?”

Cassandra’s eyes snapped to his. “Dwarf. That elf – he’s your friend. _Do_ something.”

Varric threw up his hands. “And get killed by getting in his way? No thanks.”

Cassandra’s gaze pierced. “I always knew you were a coward.”

“Better to live as a coward, if the other option is to be a dead hero,” Varric said. When Cassandra’s disapproving gaze did not relent, Varric sighed. “Fine. But if I die, promise you won’t ship my body back to Orzammar. I can’t say that the idea of returning to the Stone ever really appealed to me. I’d prefer a nice, Andastrian cremation.”

Of course no one else would dare get anywhere near the elf. However, as Varric approached Fenris, from the other direction, the Commander burst onto the scene. Clearly someone had fetched him – Harding perhaps – and he’d come running. Chest heaving, his hair mussed, he skidded to a stop before the mage. “Dorian...” he panted. “What...”

At the same time, Varric called out to Fenris. “Uh, Broody? Could you maybe consider – oh, I don’t know – _talking_ this out?”

Dorian’s gaze swiveled to Cullen.

At the same time, Fenris whipped his head about to look at Varric.

A moment ticked by.

Almost simultaneously, the magic in Dorian’s hands fizzled out as Fenris extinguished his markings.

The men from Tevinter glared at each other for a moment longer.

Dorian broke contact first, his eyes shifting down to the ground.

Fenris grunted a noise of pure disgust, spun on his heel, and – to everyone’s collective relief – stormed out of the gardens.

***

Dorian had dined with Trevelyan after his return from Crestwood. Listened to his tales of adventure and _how you should have been there._ Not that Dorian had any burning desire to splash about in flooded caves, being chased by demons and undead. And he’d seen enough ruins to last him a lifetime, _thank you very much._ And, last but not least, he certainly had no interest in spending any time _getting to know_ the Champion of Kirkwall as the starstruck Inquisitor had done.

After dinner, Dorian staggered to the Herald’s Rest to meet Varric, who had sent a messenger that afternoon with an invitation to play Wicked Grace. Staggered because the Inquisitor had insisted that he sample from a bottle of Antivan Sip Sip he had unearthed somewhere during the trip. They’d only had one small glass, but the liquor had packed a wickedly strong punch. Fire in a glass.

Cullen wouldn’t approve of seeing him like this. Fortunately, he knew that the Commander would be busy catching up with his reports this evening, so Dorian would have plenty of time to sober up and not have to worry about the guilt he would feel as seeing the silent worry in Cullen’s golden eyes.

But all thoughts of Cullen dropped away when Dorian entered the tavern and his gaze fell upon Varric, sitting at a table in the corner, and noted that the dwarf wasn’t alone.

Sitting across from him was Garrett Hawke. The Champion of Kirkwall. Leto’s _lover._

_Not Leto anymore,_ Dorian reminded himself again. _Fenris._ The elvhen boy he had known was gone, leaving no trace behind. It was if Danarius _had_ killed him, almost giving credence to Halward Pavus’ lie.

At Trevelyan’s urging – really, that man was too optimistic, too soft-hearted, too forgiving – Dorian had done his best to reconcile with his father. Except that it had ended with more hurt and so much screaming. Dorian had toyed with the idea of writing to his father to ask why he’d lied about the slave, but he didn’t have the heart to withstand another confrontation, not even in the form of a letter.

Now, tamping down his apprehension, Dorian made his way over to the table and sat down at Varric’s urging.

He surreptitiously studied Hawke as the man turned in his chair to flag down the tavern wench and order them all some tea. Silly of him to be jealous of this man. Really, there was no reason to hate him – after all, he hadn’t done anything. If Dorian had possessed a kinder nature, he may have even been able to appreciate the fact that the man made Fenris happy. But, no – his hate was like a kettle over a low fire, steadily simmering.

Dorian noted Hawke’s change of clothing – clean, form-fitting, simple – and how his hair, still damp from a recent bath, was combed back away from his angular face, and that he’d even trimmed his beard so that it flaunted, rather than hid, the sharp, strong line of his jaw. _He cleans up well, at any rate,_ was Dorian’s thought as the handsome Champion turned back to the table, his golden eyes coming to rest on Dorian’s face.

The Champion’s being a sexy bastard only made Dorian hate him more.

Or perhaps it made him just hate himself. After all, didn’t he have the most beautiful man at Skyhold – other than himself, naturally – at his beck and call and in his bed?

“Serah Pavus,” Hawke said. “I hope you don’t mind that I invited myself along to your date with Varric, but I wanted to speak with you.”

Varric chortled. “It isn’t a ‘date,’ Hawke. No offense, Sparkler, but you’re really not my type.”

“I see,” Dorian drawled. “Too manly for you, am I?”

“No,” Varric said with a wry smile. “Too _tall.”_

At that, Hawke snorted a laugh. The warm look he then exchanged with Varric spoke volumes about their friendship. Then Hawke turned his attention back to Dorian. “Anyway,” he said, as the mirth slipped from his eyes, “I just wanted to apologize to you. On behalf of Fenris.”

_Then why didn’t he come here to apologize himself?_ Dorian nearly asked, but the answer was already clear. _Fenris_ wasn’t sorry.

And Dorian wasn’t forgiving.

He narrowed his eyes. “So, we’re all in agreement? That he started it?” Dorian sneered. “Does he tell everyone to _go fuck themselves?”_

Hawke and Varric exchanged another little glance. This time, Varric seemed bemused. His shoulders lilting in a shrug, he said, “Yeah. Pretty much.”

“What a delightful fellow,” Dorian murmured as the wench set down a cup before each of them. “It makes me wonder why you keep him around.” He paused to smile at the wench as she withdrew, then fixed Hawke in a calculating stare. “He must be quite a tiger in the sack, then.”

_Maker, Dorian Pavus, what is wrong with you?_ he asked himself as Hawke’s lips twisted tightly together. _Do you have to antagonize every man you meet?_

Then Hawke’s expression changed. “Well, no,” he said, surprising Dorian with his candidness. “He can, however, rip a man’s heart out of his chest still beating.” Hawke smirked. “Lucky for you that you don’t have one.”

Dorian blinked. Did this man just _snark_ him? Well, two could play at that game, and Dorian was the king of it. Letting his long fingers trace down along his own throat, Dorian offered Hawke a saucy smile. “Shame, that. Let me know, though, if you ever get tired of playing with kittens.”

Hawke nearly choked on his tea. This man was dangerous. Not only was he gorgeous and sexy as a desire demon, but _he knew it_. Setting down his cup, however, Hawke returned Dorian’s teasing smile with one of his own. “I’m certain that if I took you up on that offer, the only thing that would end up in my ass would be Cullen’s sword. Assuming Fenris didn’t kill me first.”

A strange little noise became trapped in Dorian’s throat.

“Okay, then!” Varric said loudly. “I seem to recall that we were supposed to be playing cards tonight. Yes, cards. Cards would be good.”

 


	6. The Siege

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am a bad man. 
> 
> Warning for violence and death.

The moons bathed the encampment in pale lunar light as the wind hissed through the sands of the Western Approach.

They were less than a day’s march from Adamant Fortress. Hawke and Alistair had spent most of the evening conferring with the Inquisitor and the Commander about the plan of attack. Cullen’s plan, from start to finish – that much was clear to the Grey Warden. He’d made the mistake of playing chess with the Commander at camp the night before, only to be brutally defeated three times in a row. The man was a master tactician.

And, Alistair mused, a far different man from the one he’d met at the Circle of Ferelden, half-dead and half-consumed by madness after being tormented by demons for days.

After, as he and Hawke headed away from the makeshift war table near the Inquisitor’s tent, Alistair voiced this observation out loud to Hawke.

Hawke slowed to a stop. Nearly all of the Inquisition’s forces were here, and a large number of soldiers, spies, and other personnel milled about, meaning that they were not alone. But the general buzz around them practically guaranteed that their conversation was private.

“He’s much different than he was as the Knight-Commander in Kirkwall. Half the time I swear he was trying to come up with some justification for locking me up for being a mage once he finally figured _that_ out.” Hawke paused, thoughtful. “Shit, I never saw that guy smile. Not once. Not until I came to Skyhold. I didn’t even realized he had _teeth.”_

Alistair smiled at the quip. “Yes, nice, shiny white ones. He almost blinded me the other day,” he said. “I suppose the Inquisition’s done him some good, then.”

“Or someone in the Inquisition,” Hawke said. Glancing about the camp, he noticed Dorian Pavus, who was walking towards them. “Speaking of which...” Trailing off, Hawke gave Alistair a sly look. “Do me a favor. When Pavus comes by, smile at him.”

“Smile at him...?”

“Yes. Trust me.”

Before Alistair could ask why, the mage had reached them. Cunning eyes slid over one man then the other. “I hope you’re enjoying the evening, gentlemen,” he said. “Though I don’t know why you southerners call this ‘The Western Approach.’ That implies that there’s something interesting waiting at the _end_ of the approach, but all I’ve seen is _sand.”_

Hawke sniggered. “This is nothing. Try the Hissing Wastes next time. Then you’ll be wringing sand out of your small clothes for weeks.” Hawke glanced at Alistair. “Right, Warden?”

As both pairs of eyes turned on him, Alistair smiled.

For a moment, Dorian was still but for a twitch in his right eyebrow. Then he hastily cleared his throat. “Sand. Yes. Lovely,” he managed. “Well. I should probably call it an early night. We have a madman to stop, and a castle full of demons to kill in the morning.”

The Champion and the Warden watched Dorian stiffly move off.

Alistair gave Hawke a questioning look. “Ah... your point...?”

Hawke sniggered again. “It’s almost cute how you don’t realize.”

“I... am I missing something here?”

“Just that any time you and Cullen stand next to each other, every woman – and one male mage from Tevinter – is thinking about how they’d like to be the meat in a Templar sandwich.”

“In a...?” Alistair began, and then understanding dawned, flushing his face red. “Oh. I, uh... that’s... flattering?” He coughed into his fist. “Okay. Now you’ve made it awkward. I think I’ll go find a corner to blush in. Ah... say good night to Fenris for me.”

***

Hawke found Fenris shortly after in their tent.

Fenris sat on the bedroll, legs splayed, an open bottle of wine between them. In one corner of the tent, his armor sat in a pile. Dented, scratched – a testament to years and years of fighting. As Hawke dropped down to sit beside him, Fenris lifted the bottle to his lips and took a long pull.

Fenris drank too much. But Hawke had given up on nagging him about it a long time ago. Nagging never led anywhere good.

As the elf wiped a drop of ruby liquid from his chin, his eyes hazily focused on Hawke. “Any news?”

“Just the usual,” Hawke said lightly. “Demons. Rogue Wardens. Oh, and a heap of blood magic. Must be Tuesday.”

Fenris lowered the bottle with a thoughtful grunt.

Hawke kicked off his boots. Then tossed them in a different corner. “Oh, and I forgot the best part. Given the odds, _someone_ is most likely going to die tomorrow.”

Fenris stared at him. Deeply, with eyes as serious and green as poisoned daggers to the throat. His tone was quiet, grim. “As long as it’s not _you,_ Hawke.”

Hawke exhaled slowly. Despite Cullen’s plans and all his men, seizing the fortress was not going to be as simple and pleasant as, say, an afternoon stroll in Hightown with a stop for shaved ice. The danger was real. Which is exactly why he’d argued with Fenris before they’d left. But the elf had refused to remain behind in Skyhold this time.

Hawke had another quip ready, but his heart wasn’t in it. “I’ll try not to die,” he said, somewhat subdued. “That’s the most I can promise. But these magisters – they must be stopped.”

Nimble elvhen fingers toyed with the bottle as Fenris stared at Hawke for a moment longer. Then he sighed. “I don’t... disagree with you.”

_Good._ “I promised Cullen that you’d stay at his side. He could use your sword.”

Fenris’ eyes narrowed. “And where will you be?”

“Right behind you. With Alistair and the Inquisitor.”

Hawke saw it. That little bit of tension that had clenched at the elf’s shoulders, which now drained away. _Of course he would rather be in the front. Between me and the danger._ That was how it had always been, at least since Hawke and Varric had returned, successful, from their expedition into the Deep Roads. Fenris on the front line. Protecting him. Though Hawke had no problem firing spells _over_ Fenris’ head, or around him, so he hadn’t protested at the time.

Only later – after that night at the mansion – did Hawke start to worry about Fenris’ recklessness.

Hawke’s gaze swept over Fenris. _Beautiful man._ Then, with his leg, he gave the elf a playful little nudge. “Are you interested...?”

Fenris took a smaller sip of wine as he looked at Hawke. _Are you interested...?_ That was the question that Hawke always asked to instigate sex. He asked it rarely. And after the first two nights they’d spent together – three years apart – Hawke had always been the instigator.

But Fenris never said no. Even though... well, it wasn’t that he _hated_ having sex with Hawke. In truth, a part of Fenris longed for that intimacy with the man he loved. He longed, too, to have a relationship that was _normal._ Whatever that meant. Certainly he’d spent enough time listening to Isabela talk about it, so he’d had some idea what sex could be like for those who hadn’t been mutilated with lyrium scars, or hadn’t been an abused slave. So when he’d finally mustered up the nerve to throw himself at Hawke – to take a _chance_ – he hadn’t been disappointed. After, he’d told Hawke that it had been better than anything he’d ever imagined, and it hadn’t been a lie. But he knew that his experiences were limited. Before Hawke, sex was _pain._ Everything was relative.

Still, as long as he could keep those memories of his time in slavery in Tevinter at bay, then sex was fine.

Just... fine. As good as a warm meal when you were hungry on a winter’s night. But not quite as good as the solace found in a bottle of wine.

Wiping his chin again, he set the wine bottle down near the tent wall before turning back to Hawke with a small smile. “Of course.”

Fenris’ smile touched upon Hawke’s own lips. Then he was leaning forward, lifting a hand, which he slid across Fenris’ cheek, past his ear, to wind into his hair. Then their lips were touching.

Fenris closed his eyes as Hawke kissed him – slowly, deeply, languidly – as the mage’s fingers swept across his scalp. Most of Fenris’ face, except for his chin, and the sides of his head were safe. Places free of lyrium scars. Free from _hurt._ And kissing was also usually safe, as long as Hawke was careful about just where he put his mouth. And eventually he was rewarded by a soft sound from Fenris that was somewhere between a sigh and a moan.

Hawke drew back. Voice slightly breathless. “Are we using magic tonight?”

Fenris bit his lip, considering. This was always Hawke’s second question, and always Fenris’ decision. He loathed the idea of anyone using magic on him, even if it were Hawke. He’d even hated when Anders used to cast much-needed healing spells on him. Well... he’d hated Anders. And even though he trusted Hawke like he’d trusted no other man before, having a mage cast spells on him made his skin crawl.

But there was no other way they could do it and be able to touch. With magic, at least the pain from his markings would be tolerable, reduced down to a dull roar. The only other option was to fuck with a minimum of touching. The scars were nearly everywhere – other than his face, the only unmarred skin was on Fenris’ palms, the bottoms of his feet, the upper portion of his hips, and his groin.

He knew what Hawke wanted.

Was there anything he wouldn’t do for this man?

“Magic would be fine,” Fenris said.

Hawke smiled. Cast the familiar spell. And then gathered Fenris into his arms, pulling him down to the bedroll.

***

On the other side of camp, Dorian sat listening to Bull and Krem insulting each other with affection, while Sera laughed at everything and nothing. All of them drinking.

Except for Dorian.

Since that afternoon in the War Room, Dorian had been scandalously sober – sampling the Inquisitor’s firewater notwithstanding. Weeks without a drink. Due to Cullen’s influence, mostly.

Dorian had not agreed to Cullen’s proposal of sharing a room. But, given the way things were going, if was if he _had._ Instead of Dorian coming to Cullen for his fix of sex, every night the Commander now came to Dorian’s room. At first, Dorian had been secretly delighted – after all, didn’t he _deserve_ to have men come chasing after him? – and more than eager to play with the soldier, fulfilling both of their carnal desires, night after night.

It was more than that – Dorian knew it. And yet he acted like it was just a physical thing. A fling. Something they were doing for pleasure. Dorian didn’t talk about feelings, and neither did Cullen.

Except, at some point, Cullen began leaving some of his things in Dorian’s room. Innocuous things. First a comb. Clean small clothes. A shaving kit – though he rarely used it. A robe, for lounging. Slowly and quietly encroaching into Dorian’s daily life, filling his space.

Worse, there had been a night when Cullen appeared, tired and ragged after a long day, complaining of a headache. Settled comfortably on the bed, with Cullen’s head in his lap, Dorian had gently massaged the blond’s temples while soothing-smelling incense burned in a small censer tucked in the corner. No sex. Instead, they had fallen asleep in each others’ arms, curled together as carelessly as cats.

And Dorian had been _happy._

As the logs in the fire shifted, shooting sparks up into the sky, a familiar voice murmured close to his ear. “He sent me to find you, Dorian.”

Sera jumped, nearly falling off the rock she’d been using as a perch. “Urgh,” she groaned. “What’s _it_ doing here? That thing ain’t right.”

Dorian ignored the elf’s outburst. “Oh? Who sent you, Cole?”

“The Commander. _The lion seeks his lamb in the pack of wolves._ He needs to see you. To tell you.”

_To tell me what?_ Dorian wondered. But he did not voice that question aloud in front of everyone. “I’m nobody’s lamb, Cole.”

The dancing flames of the fire reflected eerily in the Spirit’s eyes. “He is waiting for you now.” Cole lifted a pale hand towards a point in the distance. “There. In the tent under the banner.”

Dorian stood. Brushed the sand off his pants. Then wished everyone a good night before heading towards the place Cole had indicated.

Cullen’s tent was located just a few yards away from the main tent where the advisers had gathered. Somewhat set apart from the others, it was in range of shouting distance, but far enough away to afford some privacy. As Dorian approached, he spotted Cullen standing near the tent’s entrance. Moonlight and torchlight glinting off his armor, he stood with arms crossed, gazing up at the sky.

As Dorian came closer, Cullen turned, his honey eyes warm as a gentle smile spread across his face.

He was so beautiful that it made Dorian’s heart ache.

Dorian caught his breath. “Cole said you were looking for me?”

“Yes, I...” Cullen trailed off, looking suddenly lost, then cleared his throat into his fist, eyes slipping away from Dorian’s face. “...I wanted to speak to you.”

Dorian circled around him. Cullen had gone from _Commander_ to _flustered boy_ in an instant. “That sounds... serious.”

Cullen’s eyes fluttered back up. He shifted his weight, clearly hesitant, as if he were gathering up the courage to speak. “I don’t –” Cullen sighed, eyes shifting to something in the distance, briefly, before sliding back to Dorian. “I don’t know how to say this – I’ve never done this before – never been in a romantic relationship. In Kirkwall, I avoided any... entanglements. I didn’t want to –” Cullen paused to bark a soft, bitter laugh. “I’m probably not making any sense.”

_He wants to end this,_ was Dorian’s sudden thought, _but he doesn’t know how to say it._ Of course Dorian’s mind would go there. He was used to not getting what he wanted – to not expect anything – and always assumed the worst. Cold, his words sliced like steel. “If you’re tired of me, Commander, then just say say so.”

Cullen’s expression filled with shock. “No!” he protested, reaching for the mage, hands coming to rest on Dorian’s shoulders. “That isn’t what I meant at all.”

Dorian regarded him quizzically.

“Dorian,” he began again, his voice so low that it was barely more than a whisper. “I know how you feel about me. You don’t have to say it.”

Dorian felt his treacherous heart skip a beat.

Cullen’s hands tightened around his shoulders, as if keeping him from a hasty escape. “But laying siege to the fortress tomorrow will be dangerous. No one knows what will happen. We could die.” Cullen paused, drawing a deep breath. “If that happens – I don’t want to die without telling you how I feel about you. What you mean to me. I want you to know –”

_Don’t you dare. Don’t you dare bring feelings into this._ “Cullen. Whatever you’re going to say... it doesn’t matter. No one is going to die.” He attempted a smile and a lightly teasing tone. “You know, I never realized you were such a pessimist.”

Cullen didn’t smile at his little jibe. “Dorian. Just let me say it –”

Dorian didn’t let him finish. Instead, he pressed closer, nestling his hips against Cullen’s as his hands slipped up to the back of Cullen’s neck, pulling him forcibly in for a kiss. Grinding against him with single-minded determination as his tongue plunged past Cullen’s lips.

At Dorian’s onslaught, Cullen stiffened – in more ways than one. Then his arms were sliding around the mage, almost crushing, as he moaned into Dorian’s mouth. Fingers entwined in Cullen’s hair, Dorian rocked against him, his hardening cock sliding temptingly against Cullen’s through the fabric, a promise of delights to come.

_Too many layers,_ Dorian thought. Lips smacked wetly as Dorian suddenly pulled back, sliding his hands down to Cullen’s chest. Metal, cooled by the desert’s night air below his fingertips. Saw Cullen’s golden eyes, hazed with desire. Wanting him. Wanting.

Dorian took an aggressive stepped forward. Pushed Cullen, both of them ducking, past the tent flaps and down to the bedroll on the ground so that Cullen was on his back. Climbing over him, Dorian positioned himself so he was straddling Cullen’s lap. Began rocking again, drawing breathless sounds from Cullen’s lips.

Smiling sultrily, Dorian’s hands fell to Cullen’s armor, practiced fingers slipping the stole from his shoulders, deftly loosening straps and unbuckling his belt. “You were saying something, Commander?”

Cullen’s hands skimmed over Dorian’s thighs. Eyes glazed with lust as another tortured sigh escaped him. “Maker’s breath, Dorian,” he rasped. “Come here.”

Dorian had a response on the tip of his tongue. But he didn’t have the chance to speak. Suddenly, Cullen shot up, fingers curling around the nape of Dorian’s neck, mouth hungry and seeking his, as yanked him down to the ground.

***

The siege on Adamant began at noon.

As promised, Fenris stayed close to Cullen’s side, fighting alongside the Commander and his men. They were solid swordsmen – Cullen had trained them well. There had been only a handful of casualties as they made their way deeper through the cold, labyrinthine corridors of the fortress.

Behind them, shielded and safe, Hawke, Alistair, the Inquisitor and his inner circle.

At least until they reached the main hall.

Fenris held back with the soldiers as the Inquisitor tried to defuse the situation by swaying the Grey Wardens to their side. The tension in the air was thick and cloying like clotted milk. Gripping his sword tighter at his side, Fenris considered what great satisfaction he would have felt if he’d only had the opportunity to reach the balcony where the Tevinter magister stood, and liberate his oily head from his neck.

Still, there was some satisfaction to be had when the Wardens turned on the magister, who then fled up into the battlements. For a brief, glorious moment, it seemed that victory was theirs.

Naturally, everything turned to shit.

From the rift in the Great Hall, a slew of demons poured forth. An entire line of them, separating Fenris, Cullen and the bulk of the Inquisition’s army from the advance party, consisting of the Inquisitor, Alistair, Dorian, Cassandra, Varric and Hawke. Sword at the ready, Fenris was already moving to defend himself, even as the Commander screamed orders to his men.

_To arms! Attack! Attack!_

Fenris’ hands were full of steel, of death, of demonic despair. A glance only was all he could spare. He caught just a glimpse of Hawke’s back as the Champion dashed behind the others in their mad pursuit of the magister up the stairs. Then he was drawn back into the skirmish again.

Battling desperately for his life, Fenris did not see Hawke fall into the rift.

***

Dorian Pavus hated many things.

He hated blood magic, of course. He hated the men who resorted to it because they were too weak to otherwise gain power. He hated hypocrites, liars, and cheats. He hated demons. He hated the hole in the sky. He hated being reviled just for the fact that he’d – by sheer chance – been born in Tevinter. He hated being poor, going hungry, and suffering the cold.

Now he had a new thing to add to the list of things he hated: fearlings.

This was the second time since they’d physically entered the Fade that they’d been surprise attacked by these horrible things. Even after the last one fell – pierced through by Cassandra’s sword – Dorian’s hands continued to shake as he tightened his grip on his staff.

“Ugh,” he heard Hawke mutter. “I fucking _hate_ spiders.”

Trevelyan lifted a hand to wipe the sweat from his brow, seemingly oblivious to the smear of blood he left behind. “That makes two of us.”

Cassandra, who’d been trying – unsuccessfully – to shake the gore from her sword, gave them a annoyed glare. “Spiders? Surely you mean maggots.”

The Inquisitor stared at her in confusion. “Maggots?”

“I get it,” Varric said as he holstered Bianca. “Those things – they appear differently to everyone.” Swinging his gaze to Dorian, he asked, “How ‘bout you, Sparkler? What did you see?”

_Cullen. Cullen consumed by red lyrium, madness in his eyes, trying to kill them all..._

Dorian shivered. Then snapped, “I don’t hear you volunteering to share what you saw, Varric.”

Varric flinched. Then sighed. “Yeah, let’s not talk about it. Your Inquisitorialness – can we move on? We do still have a Nightmare to kill.”

Hawke slung his staff across his back. “Killing the Nightmare? That should be fun. Payback usually is.”

All throughout their trek through the Fade, the Nightmare had been taunting them. Alistair about his lack of valor. Dorian about his father. Cassandra about her faith in the Maker. Varric about how it was his fault that Hawke was in danger. And Hawke himself hadn’t been spared.

Hawke didn’t care what the Nightmare had said about Kirkwall. Or that nothing he had ever done really mattered. But the last thing the Nightmare said to him had filled him with dread.

_Fenris is going to die, just like your family, and everyone you ever cared about._

Hawke would assure that this monster paid for that with its death. No matter what.

Trevelyan gave the signal and they began to move out.

***

The Nightmare rose again. Enraged, it was screeching. Many legs ticking, slinging up shards of shale from the rocky terrain. Eyes flashing sickly green in the mist as ichor dripped from its fangs.

Dorian stared up at it in horror.

_What the fuck. We killed it._

Hawke’s sharp eyes darted about. In their race towards the rift, they’d been separated from the others. Mere moments before, they’d been right on the Inquisitor’s tail, close enough to taste his dust. The Seeker surging forward beside him. Varric scrambling to keep up at his other side. Dorian behind them, using his staff to navigate the treacherous path. Hawke and Alistair taking up the rear.

Then Alistair had tripped, lost his footing, his boots sliding uselessly over the scree. Down he went, the clatter of steel against rock alerting Hawke to his fall. Spinning about, Hawke had rushed back, grasping at the Warden’s arm to pull him back up.

“Alistair! Are you all right?”

Shaken, Alistair attempted to rise. Then Dorian was at his other side, helping the man to his feet.

Hawke felt a twinge of surprise. The others raced on, clearly unaware, but the Tevinter mage had not only realized what was going on behind him, but had actually turned around and come back to help Alistair. A man he barely knew.

That spoke volumes about his character.

In the past few weeks, he’d often found himself in the other mage’s company when he was at Skyhold, and they’d lost many late evenings to in-depth conversations about magic, when they weren’t bantering back and forth with flirtatious-fueled snark. But Hawke was adept at judging a man, and this Pavus was wearing a mask. And his risking his life to help the Warden confirmed something that Hawke had already suspected: that below his mask of jaded nonchalance, Dorian was a man good in both heart and intentions.

“I’m fi –” Alistair began, but then the Nightmare reappeared, blocking the path of their escape.

A heartbeat.

Hawke’s gaze cut back to the other men. “Go! I’ll cover you!”

“No!” Alistair protested. “You were right. The Grey Wardens caused this. A Warden must –”

Hawke cut him off with a snarl. “A Warden must help them rebuild! That’s your job.” Golden eyes narrowed at the monster, hard as diamonds and equally determined. “Corypheus is _mine.”_

Alistair pondered the conviction in Hawke’s eyes for a brief moment only. “May the Maker watch over you, my friend.”

Dorian’s eyes widened. “Are you both _mad?”_ he blustered. “Staying behind is tantamount to suicide!”

“Someone has to hold that beast off,” Hawke said. “And there’s no time to argue. So, both of you – _go.”_

_“Go?”_ Dorian’s voice seethed with anger. “So _we_ can be the ones to explain to Fenris _why you didn’t come back?”_

Pain was a red-hot poker, jabbing deep. _Fenris... my love...._ Hawke drew a breath, trying to harden his heart. He should have made certain that Corypheus was dead in the first place. Then none of this would have happened. And he would not allow Alistair to die for his mistake. “Tell Fenris... tell him I’m sorry.”

Sparks literally dripped from Dorian’s hands. “The fuck I will!”

Suddenly Hawke’s hand shot forth, clenching around Dorian’s shoulder, jerking him forward. “Pavus,” he said, serious as a plague. “Promise me that you’ll watch over Fenris for me. Keep him safe.”

Shock flashed over Dorian’s face. “What? No! I will not allow you to sacrifice yourself for me! That’s completely unacceptable!” His eyes narrowed. “The two of you will go, and I will stay. I’m a better mage than you and you know it. If anyone can find a way out of here, it would be _me.”_

“Maker’s breath,” Alistair muttered, knuckles bloodless as he gripped his sword tighter. “It’s coming!”

There really was no more time to argue. And Dorian – _that stubborn bastard_ – was not going to back down, leaving Hawke little choice. “Alistair,” Hawke muttered as he drew his free arm back, hand curling into a fist, “get him out of here.”

Before Dorian could react, Hawke’s fist landed squarely on his jaw.

Pain rattled his skull. His eyes were full of stars. Blood filled his mouth from where he’d bitten his own tongue at the same time he lost control of his legs. He was only vaguely aware of his knees buckling, sending him slumping down towards the ground, only to be saved at the last moment by a pair of strong arms around him, hauling him up. Only vaguely aware of the Grey Warden heaving Dorian’s limp, useless body up over his shoulder as though Dorian weighed no more than a sack of flour, and racing them away from Hawke, towards the rift.

***

The battle raged on in the main hall.

They’d been fighting for hours. Incessant wave after wave of demons spawning from the rift. Many had fallen, mangled bodies strewn across the ground, the stone floor slick with the blood of their comrades. Vision blurred from sweat dripping into eyes, muscles screamed from the weight of their weapons.

In a rare moment of calm, they’d learned this much: that the Inquisitor and some of the others had fallen from the collapsing battlements into a rift of the Inquisitor’s making. There was hope, then, that they were still alive.

“The Inquisitor is no fool,” Cullen had said. “They need a way out. Though this rift is their only chance. We will stay here and fight until they return.”

The next wave of demons attacked.

Then the next.

And the next.

Cullen thrust his long sword into the shade before him. Defeated, it shattered into smoke and dust.

Every time Fenris lifted his blade, he could feel a burning sensation across his back. At some point a demon had raked its claws across his back, finding that chink in his armor and ripping through leather. But he didn’t know how bad the wound was, as there’d been no time to stop and check, much less call for the company healer, whose hands had been occupied for hours, robes and wrists stained red.

He barely had the strength to flare the lyrium in his markings anymore.

Just when Fenris was at the point where he was genuinely considering giving up, unable to go on for much longer, the rift in the hall burst to life once more. From the rift, three more figures emerged.

A shout rose up from the crowd. “It’s the Inquisitor! He made it!”

Cullen’s head whipped around.

Fenris was close enough that he heard the hope-infused word that slipped from the Commander’s lips.

_“Dorian...”_

Fenris saw it. Saw everything. That second in which the Commander let down his guard. Saw the fear demon rushing towards the ex-Templar. Saw the creature attack.

Six long, hideous, claw-like appendages shot forth from the demon’s back into Cullen’s body, piercing cloth, steel and flesh. All six, directly into Cullen’s mid-section, piercing all the way through his body and out his back.

The Commander’s eyes widened in shock. An almost inaudible cry was forced from his throat. Clang of metal on stone as the sword slipped from his grasp.

For a brief moment, the Commander writhed, suspended on the demon’s claws.

Then the demon flexed. Joints cracking, it snapped open its appendages, like a butterfly unfurling its wings at high speed, ripping through flesh. Pulverizing Cullen’s spine. Obliterating the organs in its path.

Blood spattered the ground and then spurted through the air as the demon hurled what was left of Cullen’s body in two different directions.

It took Fenris three heartbeats to realize what had just happened.

Another two for it to fully register in his brain.

The demon had literally torn the Commander of the Inquisition’s forces in half.

_Fuck._

Near the rift, the Inquisitor skidded to a stop. Beside him, Cassandra and Varric.

Another shout. “Quick! Inquisitor! Close the rift!”

Trevelyan’s head jerked around, seeking the source of the voice, and failing to find it. He shouted over the skirmish. “No! Not until the others come through!”

The terror that had suddenly seized Fenris’ heart melted quickly away. _The others... Hawke... he will come back..._

That thought was fleeting. Fenris was already moving, scrambling towards Cullen, even as some of Cullen’s men threw themselves, screaming in outrage, at the fear demon. Fenris dropped to his knees at the Commander’s side, shouting for the healer, even though he knew deep-down that it was pointless. That there was no fixing... _this._

The demon had severed the man at the waist. Several yards away lay the lower half of Cullen’s body, legs still twitching. Fenris crouched down by Cullen’s upper body, from which the entrails streamed, pink and steaming, across the ground for several feet, as blood poured out to pool around Fenris’ knees.

Fenris felt a stab of horror as he realized that Cullen’s eyes were still open, his chest rising and falling with his breath.

_Cullen was still alive._

The elf barely managed to choke back the bile in his throat.

“Fenris...” Cullen breathed, eyes half glazed. “I can’t feel anything... it’s bad, isn’t it?”

_Fuck. Fuck. Fuck._ He didn’t know what he was supposed to say. There didn’t seem to be any point in lying. “You’re dying.”

A shudder rippled through him. When he spoke again, his voice was weaker. “Fenris. Listen. Please.” Cullen swallowed, then continued, his voice continuing to grow faint. “I don’t know what you mean to him, but... please. Swear that you will protect Dorian... keep him... safe.”

Fenris’ head was a jumble of thoughts. He didn’t know what Cullen was talking about – that he meant something to the mage? He and the mage were _not_ friends. _Kaffas,_ even Cullen had never been his friend. But he’d known the man in Kirkwall – despite Fenris’ involvement in the questionable actions of the Champion, he and Cullen – joined in their mistrust of mages – had respected one another. And Fenris would not refuse the wish of a dying man.

With all the solemnity of a Warden about to take the oath, Fenris spoke low, but clear. “I swear it.”

In the ex-Templar’s eyes, a flash of relief. Of peace. Then one final breath.

No one held Commander Cullen Rutherford’s hand as he died.

At that moment, the rift sparked to life once more.

Grey Warden Alistair stumbled through, staggering under the weight of his burden – one half-conscious Tevinter mage slung over his shoulder. “Close the rift!”

Confusion clouded Trevelyan’s voice. “Where’s Hawke?”

“He stayed behind so that we could live!” Alistair shouted. “For the love of the Maker, before the Nightmare comes through, close the rift!”

Inside of Fenris, every nerve was screaming.

Then he was screaming, even as he tried to push himself to his feet. He had to save Hawke, even if it meant throwing himself into the Fade. In his brain there was only the mindless chant of _Hurry hurry hurry!_ But his limbs were heavy as lead, refusing to obey. Half-tumbling, half-dragging his wasted bones, he was only halfway to his goal when the Inquisitor lifted his hand.

He hadn’t been fast enough. It was too late. Fenris dropped to his knees in despair as the Inquisitor let the energy flow out of the Anchor and sealed the rift.

 


	7. Aggregio Pavali

They buried the dead outside Adamant Fortress.

The sand made for difficult digging. But the Inquisitor refused to leave the dead where they had fallen. Every able hand worked willingly at the task. Then, at twilight, torches lit, they held a vigil for the men and women who had lost their lives. As their leader, Maxwell Trevelyan was obligated to speak a few somber words. He was keenly aware that everyone was depending on him to stay strong. Swallowing his own grief, he addressed the crowd.

_They gave their lives for the greater good. The sacrifices of these brave souls in the name of the Inquisition will not be forgotten. May they find peace in the bosom of the Maker._

Even to his own ears, the words sounded hollow. Yet, silent tears streaked the faces of many of the soldiers by the time Trevelyan finished his speech.

_Do they not realize that I’m a sham?_

His eyes scanned the crowd, seeking two faces in particular. He found Dorian first, standing apart, then Fenris, with Varric at his side. Exhaustion was plain on both of their faces, but their eyes were dry. Stone-faced, Dorian watched as they placed his lover’s remains, wrapped in a makeshift shroud, into the unfriendly, desolate ground.

As for Fenris, there was no such closure. His lover lost in the Fade.

_I shouldn’t have sealed the rift,_ Trevelyan thought. _I should have stayed behind. It’s me who deserves to be dead._

In the crowd, a thin voice began to sing. At first, a single voice, then others eventually joined in.

_Shadows fall. And hope has fled. Steel your heart. The dawn will come..._

As the earth was shoveled over the body of his friend, two perfect tears spilled out from Trevelyan’s eyes. Tonight they would bury their dead and mourn their passing, but tomorrow he would have to be strong. The Inquisition still had a purpose. He had no choice but to go on.

But sometimes the dead refused to stay buried.

***

Back at Skyhold, in the War Room there was an empty space where the Commander used to be. And yet his presence could still be felt, lingering like a ghost. The mood of the women was somber as Trevelyan looked down at the map, at the figurines shaped like horses that represented the troops. Figurines that Cullen had proudly placed with his very own fingers.

Leliana cleared her throat. “Inquisitor. As difficult as this is... it is imperative that we find Cullen’s replacement. The Inquisition’s army needs leadership.”

Trevelyan knew that she was right, yet her suggestion – _so soon!_ – still stung. Cullen had been more than the Commander of his troops. He’d been a friend, despite the fact that he was a mage and Cullen an ex-Templar. A memory of their many games of chess in the brightly-lit gardens, surrounded by the blossoming embrium and elfroot that he himself had planted, nearly brought more tears to his eyes.

Swallowing down his grief again, Trevelyan nodded. Cullen’s second-in-command had done a fine job rallying the troops home from Adamant, and seemed a good man. Loyal. “What about Knight-Captain Rylen?”

Josephine pursed her lips. “He would seem like a logical choice,” she said. “After all, Cullen did trust him implicitly.”

Leliana, on the other hand, did not seem convinced. “Whoever we choose, he – or she – would be privy to our most sensitive information,” she pointed out. “In my opinion, it would be prudent to consider someone who is already a part of the Inner Circle. Someone we already know we could trust.”

Trevelyan considered Leliana’s secretive nature. The woman trusted very few, but she had served the Inquisition well so far, and he trusted her judgment. “It sounds to me like you have someone in mind.”

Leliana folded her hands before her. Lifting her chin, almost in challenge, she met his gaze directly. “I have,” she said. “Cassandra.”

Trevelyan considered that. “Why not the Iron Bull?”

The look Leliana gave him was so sharp it could have peeled the skin off a cat.

The Inquisitor realized that suggesting a Qunari mercenary who was also a self-admitted _Ben-Hasrath_ spy was probably not the wisest of choices, regardless of how he personally felt about the man. Nobody trusted the Qunari. Putting Bull in any position of the power, in the best of scenarios, would cause them to lose the allies they had already painstakingly worked to gain.

Josephine tapped thoughtfully on her ever-present clipboard. “I agree with Leliana,” she said. “Her reputation as a Seeker proceeds her. Also, it would be advantageous to have someone of her bloodline on the council.”

Trevelyan paused, running a thoughtful hand across his chin. “That’s assuming she would agree to it,” he said. “Back in Haven, she wasn’t particularly interested in being in charge.”

“Leave that to me,” Leliana assured him. “When it comes to the Seeker, I know exactly what to say.”

Trevelyan didn’t doubt that for a second. “Was there anything else that we needed to discuss?”

“Yes, there is one matter which does require your immediate attention,” Josephine said. “As you recall, we had word that an assassin was stalking Empress Celene, and that the most opportune moment for the assassin to strike would be during Celene’s peace talks, under the guise of a Grand Ball. If Celene falls, in the ensuing chaos, it would be a perfect time for Corypheus to destroy Orlais.”

“Indeed,” Leliana agreed. “We must reach the Empress before Corypheus. The only question is: how?”

Jospehine waved her quill in the air, punctuating her words as she spoke. “We know how. I have our way in. The Grand Ball. Absolutely everyone will be there. During the festivities, Celene will be meeting for peace talks with the usurper Duke Gaspard and Ambassador Briala.”

“The assassin must be hiding within one of these factions,” Leliana added.

An Orlesian Grand Ball was the last place that Trevelyan ever expected to find himself. Growing up in the Circle, he hadn’t expected to find himself _anywhere_ beyond its all-encompassing walls.

He swallowed hard, and tried to ignore that sick, nervous feeling at the pit of his stomach. “I’ll leave the necessary arrangements in your hands, Josephine,” he said. Then, hopefully, he asked, “Will you be coming along this time? I.. I mean, the Inquisition could use your ambassadorial skills.”

Josephine’s eyes widened slightly. Then she coughed – a dainty little cough behind her elegant hand. Ignoring Leliana’s knowing look, she smiled at Trevelyan. “I... of course, Inquisitor. My skills are entirely at the Inquisition’s disposal.”

***

The tailor was Orlesian, a certain Monsieur Blanc from Val Royeaux. He was a tall, thin man wrapped so artfully in silks that his outfit appeared simple to all but the trained eye. Dark hair slick and sculpted up away from his brow like stiff icing on a cake, and as queer as a three-headed halla. From Vivienne, Dorian had already received all the details. About how Blanc had raised such a fuss over his working conditions – he and his elvhen apprentices been originally given a small, windowless room not far from Josephine’s office – that he’d only been pacified when Trevelyan offered the use of his personal quarters. Inspecting the large, airy and well-lit room, Blanc had grudgingly agreed that it was acceptable, and then whipped out his notebook, placing it irreverently on top of the maps and papers on Trevelyan’s desk and beginning to sketch.

As for Vivienne, she had no intention of joining them at the Winter Palace. “My dear,” Vivienne replied when Dorian asked why not. “I was Celene’s personal enchanter. Even if I desired to return to that pit of vipers, I can’t imagine that her conspirators would willingly reveal their plans to me. Besides,” she added, “I don’t wear pants.”

Dorian raised an eyebrow. “I take it you’ve seen these outfits they Inquisition will be wearing?”

“Rather military,” Vivienne remarked. “Josephine’s idea, from what I heard.”

“Well, given the Inquisitor’s lack of fashion sense, I’m sure anything Josephine comes up with would be an improvement.”

Vivienne offered him a conspiratorial smile. “That is true,” she said. Then her smile faded, and her tone became serious. “I know what it’s like to lose someone close to you, my dear,” she said with a touch of sympathy. “My condolences.”

Since Adamant, Trevelyan had asked Dorian how he was holding up a least a dozen times. And each time, he’d merely said that he didn’t want to speak about it. Not because it hurt, but because it didn’t. As if he’d been made Tranquil, all Dorian felt was dead inside.

Still, he was vaguely surprised by Vivienne’s kindness. Since they’d met in Haven, they’d had a less-than-friendly rivalry, and had bickered with each other viciously – at least until Trevelyan had protested in an almost child-like tantrum, insisting that they “talk nicely” to each other or not at all.

“Thank you,” Dorian said quietly, only because the words were expected of him. He was grateful when Vivienne spoke no further, instead floating away in a fashionable cloud of silk and chiffon.

Dorian wasn’t particularly surprised when he was one of the first summoned to have his measurements taken. What surprised him was that when he returned for his first fitting the following day, Sera was already there, in the Inquisitor’s quarters, posing before the mirror while one of the elvhen apprentices pinned up the hems of her sleeves.

Trevelyan, too, was dressed in the new outfit. Seeing Dorian, he smiled. “Well? What do you think?”

As Vivienne had said, there was definitely a military flavor to the jacket, which had a bit of flair with its gold embroidery and capped sleeves. Brown pants and thigh-high boots completed the outfit.

Overall, the effect was... not bad.

“I think that people may confuse you for someone in charge of a powerful organization,” Dorian quipped. “Of course, we _will_ need to do something about your hair.”

Trevelyan just continued to smile. “I’ll leave myself in your capable hands when the time comes.”

Blanc clapped his hands. “Enough talk!” he said. “Come, come, let us get you changed.” Ushering Dorian along, he gave Dorian a friendly squeeze on the bicep. Then he snapped his fingers at his other apprentice. _“Julien! Allez! Vite! Aidez le monsieur!”_

Dorian let himself he handed over like a dish. And just as well for, along with being slightly groped, he’d noted the tailor’s coveting gaze. But – even if sex had been on the table – the man was just not Dorian’s type. No, his libido was just as paralyzed as the rest of his emotions.

The apprentice led him behind a curtain which made up a sort of makeshift changing room. Not that he needed privacy, for he and Trevelyan had bathed together before, though he supposed that Sera had about zero interest in seeing men naked.

A few moments later he emerged. Took a look at himself in the mirror as the apprentice hummed through a mouth full of pins, then knelt down to make the final touches on his outfit.

“It’s all bloody itchy,” Sera complained. “And you look like a giant blood clot.”

“Yes, but think how well it will conceal those pesky blood stains,” Dorian pointed out.

“Blood of our enemies, you mean?” Sera asked, then punched the air as if it were an invisible foe. “Fuck yeah!”

The apprentice at Sera’s feet hissed out. “Hold still!”

Sera screwed up her face. “Bite me!” she snapped, earning her a dirty look from the elf, but she became still anyway.

In the mirror, Dorian watched as Trevelyan approached him. In his eyes, a hint of worry. “Dorian?”

That concern. It was enough to cause that squeezed-heart feeling. Funny, he’d believed that he was completely heartless. And because Trevelyan had asked him about his feeling so many times, he was certain that’s where this conversation was going. To a place where he didn’t _want_ to go.

Forcing himself to keep a neutral expression, Dorian met Trevelyan’s gaze in the mirror. “I’m _fine,”_ he insisted. “Truly.”

Trevelyan lifted a hand, tugging at his woolen collar. “No, I... I was going to ask you if you thought we should have a sash.”

_Oh._ Not what Dorian had expected. It took him a moment to recover. “Well... yes. Sashes do make everything more formal,” he managed to say. “After all, we do want to make a good impression.” Letting his gaze fall on Blanc, he asked, “I don’t suppose you could whip up something? Perhaps in blue?”

The tailor pressed a thoughtful finger against his lips. Then his eyes lit up. _“Oui,”_ he said. “I have the exact thing! Wait here!”

The thin man whirled about. As he rushed over to the travel chest where he kept his horde of fabrics and began pulling out bolts of every conceivable hue, Dorian glanced back at Trevelyan’s reflection in the mirror. Although Trevelyan would never be handsome, Dorian decided that the outfit did give him an air of dignity he hadn’t had before.

“Since we’re going to a Grand Ball in Orlais,” Trevelyan said. “Do you think we should wear masks?”

Before Dorian could formulate an answer, Sera made a noise of disgust. “I ain’t wearing no hoity-toity mask,” she groused. “Not being able to see someone’s face? Just plain creepy, if you ask me.”

“Well, Sera does have a point,” Dorian remarked dryly. “In fact – and I’ll deny it if you ever repeat it – I actually agree with the girl.” Pausing, Dorian considered Sera. Trevelyan never forced anyone to do anything, so that meant that her presence at the Ball would be voluntary. “You know, Sera, I’m surprised you agreed to come,” he said. “I was under the impression that you didn’t like anything about Orlesian culture.”

Sera reached up and scratched her head. Either she was deep in thought, or she had fleas – though Dorian supposed the latter were more likely.

“The cookies they make? In that shop that Inky likes? They ain’t bad,” she admitted. “And I like these boots. Betcha I could kick a lot of fancy nobles’ arses with ‘em!”

Sera kicked at the air, causing the apprentice to jump back with a terrified yelp.

Despite himself, Dorian smiled approvingly. “Now – that’s the spirit.”

***

A tin of shaving soap nearly unmade him.

He’d been packing an overnight bag for the trip to Halamshiral. Assuming that they survived Celene’s peace talks, they would have to sleep somewhere after the Ball. If not in the Winter Palace proper – acceptable accommodations, in Dorian’s opinion – then at an inn in Val Royeaux – also acceptable, given Trevelyan’s love of camping in nature. He’d nearly completed his task when he found the tin of shaving soap in one of his drawers, nestled between his meager collection of silk scarves and his cosmetics. By scent alone, he knew that it wasn’t his.

_It smelled of elderflower and oakmoss._

Upon his return from Adamant, he’d immediately packed up all the things that Cullen had left in his room – the dressing robe, the small clothes, the razor, the comb – and stuffed them all away at the bottom of the wardrobe. He hadn’t been able to bear looking at them, but he hadn’t been able to bring himself to throw Cullen’s belongings away. So, for now, hiding them from sight had seemed like the best solution.

Except that he’d somehow overlooked the soap.

Seeing it, it suddenly seemed like there wasn’t enough air in the room. For a moment he remained as if frozen in place as the memories, unbidden, rushed back in.

_Cullen: golden hair shining in the sun in the training yard as he barked orders at his recruits, swaggering like a god._

_Cullen: reaching up a hand to rub the back of his neck, a blush tinging his cheek, turning instantly from cold hard Commander to flustering boy._

_Cullen: head thrown back, fingers grasping, all bucking hips of desperate need and eyes of honeyed flames..._

A sound, unrecognizable as human, whistled out of Dorian’s throat.

This. It was more than he could handle. It threatened to cut too deep, and leave him raw and open like a battle wound to all the world’s pain.

The next moment, he was able to move again. Snatching up the tin, he buried it deep in the wardrobe, then slammed the door, as if he’d just seen a ghost. Or perhaps that is exactly what he was doing. Exorcising Cullen’s ghost.

For another moment, he just trembled, unable to control his shaking hands. Then he had one thought.

_Fuck it._

Turning, he left his room and strode determinedly down to the wine cellar.

***

Skyhold’s wine cellar was reached by a nondescript staircase on the opposite end of the Great Hall, through some dank, twisting, cob-webbed corridors, and past an unremarkable door. So well-hidden, it was no wonder Dorian hadn’t discovered it until he’d been at Skyhold for well over a month. Except by that point, due to Cullen’s excessive concern about Dorian’s possibly self-destructive drinking habits, Dorian had promised to get on the wagon. So, although the temptation to search the cellar and unearth its treasures had been strong, Dorian had mostly managed to resist thoroughly exploring its shelves.

Until now.

He opened the door. The ancient hinges ungreased, it creaked open like old bones grinding. As he stepped in to the cool, musty air, he was surprised to see that a number of torches were burning, illuminating the room well enough that he was able to read the labels on the bottles on the nearest shelf. As he paused to consider the dusty indigo bottles to his immediate left, he heard a small _clink!_

_Most likely just a rat,_ Dorian supposed, but went towards the sound to investigate.

He wove his way among the labyrinthine shelves, deeper into the cellar. On all the walls and upon free-standing shelves, dozens of dusty, jewel-like bottles glinted like promises, begging to be examined. Ignoring them, Dorian pressed on until he was nearly at the opposite end. Turning the final corner, he was surprised to see a man sitting on the floor, with his back to one of the shelves, an empty bottle between his splayed knees, and lifting another to his lips to drink.

Fenris.

For a moment, both men just looked at each other in silence. Then, without saying a word, Fenris held out the bottle towards Dorian. An offering.

The floor was dirty, but Dorian decided that he didn’t care. Sitting down across from Fenris, he accepted the bottle. Wine in a green bottle. And to his utter astonishment, he recognized it.

_Aggregio Pavali._

In an instant, Dorian was in the summer of his youth again, recalling that innocence of his first kiss. _Because you like me,_ Leto had said, igniting a fire in Dorian’s body that had faded but never truly died. For a moment, he swam in that memory, then he choked on the aftermath, still bitter like ash in his throat. It was nearly impossible to reconcile the boy he’d once loved – deeply, profoundly – with the man who sat before him.

His voice was reedy, almost a plaintive cry. “Why? Why _this?”_

Already deep in his cups, Fenris blinked. Drawing back his arm, he then considered the bottle of wine in his hand. _Aggregio Pavali –_ for as long as he could remember, he’d drunk it whenever the opportunity arose. Somehow – and he couldn’t have explained how – it reminded him of happier times he couldn’t remember and his dreams of summertime fields, bright sun, the taste of apples, fresh clear Spring water, and being able to be touched without pain. It was both his best and worst dream – a dream of something inexplicably lost. A dream that sliced like a razor-sharp blade, straight into his core – a pain that could only be relieved by the decadent sound of breaking glass as he shattered the bottle against the wall. Even those nights in which he’d been obliged to pour the Aggregio Pavali for Danarius’ guests in order to intimidate them with his appearance, couldn’t eradicate the bittersweet pain of that dream.

He recalled Hawke seated in the mansion, hands on his knees, looking like a king on a throne, surveying all he owned.

_You could have offered me a glass first, you know._

His wicked smile among the wreckage of broken glass.

Guilt like a hot knife.

_Hawke... I should have protected you..._

He didn’t answer Dorian’s question. Resisting the urge to destroy the bottle in his hand, he instead held the bottle out towards Dorian again. This time, the mage accepted it. Wine dribbled down his chin as he gulped too fast from the bottle’s mouth, as if he couldn’t get drunk fast enough. Perhaps, he, too, Fenris supposed, had come here with the intention of escaping his ghosts.

Dorian sputtered a little, then lowered the bottle. Wiping at his chin, he passed the bottle back. Watched as Fenris took a long, but slower and more calculated swig. _Oh, he’s an expert at drinking himself stupid,_ Dorian thought, almost admiring him for it. Accepting the bottle again, he emulated Fenris’ restraint this time.

For a little while, they passed the bottle back and forth, not speaking. It was, for Dorian, a strangely comforting silence. Though he’d never imagined actually sitting down anywhere and sharing a drink with the brooding elf.

_At least his lover knew how he felt before he died,_ Dorian thought, his soul heavy as if weighed down by a mantle of remorse. _I should have let him say it that night. I should have told him how I felt..._

A thought he decided to immediately drown with more wine.

Dorian, of course, being himself, could only stay in silence for so long. He just couldn’t help it – he was chatty by nature. “A little bird told me that you were planning on coming to the Winter Palace tomorrow.”

Fenris stared down at the bottle in his hand and grunted in response. For a moment, Dorian assumed that was the only response he was going to elicit from the white-haired man, but then he lifted his gaze – _eyes greener than the seas of Qarinus_ – and spoke tersely.

“Hawke wanted to help the Inquisition,” he said. “Your Inquisitor asked me for my help. The least I can do is to honor Hawke’s wish.”

Perhaps the wine had already loosened his tongue, because Dorian felt the words at his tongue’s tip – Hawke’s true final wish to tell Fenris that he was sorry. But what good would an apology do? And he certainly had no intention of telling Fenris that his lover had entrusted Fenris’ well-being into the care of Dorian – a mage from Tevinter. _That_ wouldn’t have gone over well. Not at all.

Instead he said, “Then you’re staying? At Skyhold?”

Fenris grunted in response again. This time, however, nothing more was forthcoming.

Running his fingers down over his sleeve, Dorian fidgeted with one of his buckles. “You know,” he said, “you must be a delight at dinner parties. The next time I arrange one, do remind me to put you on the guest list.”

Fenris stared at him for a long moment, his eyes narrowed slightly. Then he made a small disgruntled noise. “I’m in no mood for idle chatter,” he said, though his words weren’t as harsh as Dorian might have expected, each one heavy as if weighted down by stones of sorrow. “So either leave me in peace, Pavus, or shut up and drink.”

At Fenris’ use of his name, Dorian blinked. Briefly he considered his options. Either he snagged a bottle or two for himself, and retire to his room, haunted by a ghost. Or he could stay here with his odd companion, each of them pretending that everything was fine, and not be alone.

A decision that turned out to be relatively easy to make.

Dorian Pavus shut up and drank.

***

The Winter Palace rose up far in the distance, a sprawling mansion of white marble nestled into the verdant, flourishing countryside. As their carriages approached, Dorian stared out his window at it, watching as more details became clearer. Domes and turrets pierced the deepening crimson sky. The Palace, he decided, was the pinnacle of decadence. Silently, he approved.

Once they alighted, they walked up the path of trees manicured into the shapes of animals. Past the piked gate that led into the grounds proper. Here they saw bubbling fountains, exquisite statuary in marble, and more sculpted greenery around the pink-stoned winding paths. The main path ended in grandiose staircases that led to the doors of the mansion itself. All around them, party-goers milled about the grounds in their finery, many of their faces hidden by masks. And, as they entered, all eyes turned to them.

_As well they should,_ Dorian thought. How he’d missed being the center of attention. And, he had to admit to himself, he cut a rather fine figure in his Inquisition uniform. Although to be fair, all of them did. Even Fenris. Dorian hadn’t been able to picture Fenris wearing anything other than black, but when he first saw the elf in the uniform in Skyhold’s courtyard, he’d been vaguely surprised by how handsome he looked. Regal.

“The political situation in Hamashiral hangs by a thread,” Josephine said, softly enough to keep it from prying ears as they made their way up the path. “The Empress fears our presence could sever it. The Grand Duke is only too happy to have us at the Ball as his guests, so our invitation comes from him. Whether we act as his allies, or upset the balance of power, he gains an opportunity... if not a clear advantage.”

Trevelyan fretted for a moment. “I’ll be watched,” he said. His dark eyes quickly scanned the faces of his companions. “So will all of you. But if we’re to get to the bottom of this conspiracy and find the assassin, we’ll need to split up at the first conceivable chance.”

“Your presence will be expected in the Ballroom,” Leliana said. “Josie and I will stay with you to help you... navigate any sensitive situations.”

Trevelyan looked vaguely relieved. “Good,” he said. “Now – Cassandra, you and Varric will look for clues – anything about anyone close to the Empress. Sera, you and Cole, try to find out anything you can about Briala. And Dorian, I want you and Fenris to follow Gaspard.”

At the Inquisitor’s orders, expressions changed to surprise. It took Dorian a second to realize that he’d paired them that way on purpose. Everyone began to protest, their voices overlapping.

“Inquisitor, clearly you don’t expect me to work with the dwarf –”

“Shite! I ain’t goin’ nowhere around with _it_ –”

“Work with the Seeker? Sorry, your Inquisitorialness, in case you’ve forgotten how well _that_ worked out –”

“Inquisitor, I really don’t think you’ve considered your choices carefully –”

The Inquisitor’s face became stern. Raising a hand, he silenced them. “I don’t want any arguments,” he said, his tone unusually harsh. “If we’re going to defeat Corypheus, then _we need to learn how to work together.”_ He paused, raising a eyebrow in challenge. When everyone remained silent, he muttered a final, “Good.”

Dorian glanced over at Fenris. Other than Cole, he was the only one who hadn’t protested. Instead, he’d remained with his arms crossed before him, his expression neutral. Only the Maker knew what he was thinking. Or if he was still feeling the effects of all the wine they had drunk together in the cellar last night, as Dorian was.

They continued to walk among the trees and colorful beds of flowers. As they moved through the groups of revelers, more people turned to stare at them, murmuring in hushed tones. As they passed by a marvelous, giant fountain circled by bronze gryphons, water spewing from their mouths, one voice rose, speaking in common, louder than the others, its owner clearly not caring if she were overheard.

_Is that the Inquisitor? What an ugly little man._

Dorian whipped his head about, seeking the woman who had spoken. A series of identical blank masks stared back at him. Polite society? Dorian knew well what an oxymoron that was. He then glanced at Trevelyan, hoping the man hadn’t heard. Except by his clenched jaw, Dorian knew that he had.

Stepping closer to the Inquisitor, Dorian spoke quietly. “Inquisitor. No one has any right to speak of you that way. If you wish, I’ll – ”

Trevelyan cut off Dorian’s words with a sharp shake of his head. “It doesn’t matter,” he said, his voice strained.

“But, Inquisitor –”

“Dorian. _Let it go.”_

Dorian let all further protest die on his tongue. Inside, he felt a queasy sensation at the pit of his stomach. As if the cruel words of a stranger were a premonition of the evening to come.

In silence, they ascended the stairs into the Winter Palace.

 


	8. Wicked Hearts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back in nursing school now, plus working, so updates may be a little erratic as I have very little time to actually sit down and write. But I will do my best, and I hope you enjoy this chapter! :)

Swirl of silks. Rustle of bright taffeta against wine-dark velvet. Gloved hands holding champagne flutes aloft, glinting with tiny bubbles. Jewels glittering with captured candle flames on throats, flash of rings, soft jingle of bangles on wrists. Lips curling under smooth masks. Laughter, bright, and vicious rumors bantered in hushed tones. Hidden poisoned blade of an assassin’s knife, always ready to strike.

_It’s just like being at a soiree in the Imperium,_ Dorian remarked to Trevelyan, after the introductions had been made, and before they parted ways in the Ballroom. He’d already lost track of his proposed partner, though finding Fenris in a crowd, with that white hair of his bright as a beacon, would not be difficult. _It’s only lacking a few sacrificial slaves and some blood magic. But the night is still young._

_Watch Gaspard,_ the Inquisitor had reminded him. _And watch your back._

Gaspard, Dorian had decided upon their initial meeting, when the usurper had approached them just outside the Palace, was about as slick and trustworthy as a snake oil salesman. In other words, the perfect politician. Still, for the moment Trevelyan remained undecided about into which ring he was going to throw his proverbial hat. Though, Dorian had quipped, if he needed a hat to throw, he could always do Cole a favor by tossing _his._

Meanwhile, it seemed that Gaspard was content to mingle. Keeping his eye on his target, Dorian circulated through the room. Although the uniform set him apart, he found that he could still eavesdrop unobtrusively on a number of conversations by situating himself behind a corner or a tall potted plant. Listening, he gleaned quite a good deal of gossip about the Orlesian nobility – mostly involving a certain Madame de L’Orange who was cuckolding her husband with her elvhen gardener – but nothing pertinent to either Gaspard or the identity of the assassin in their midst.

After making his way nearly around the room, Dorian was convinced he would hear nothing useful. At least until his ears happened to snatch up a piece of conversation involving two female voices, one very familiar, the other more girlish, each of them tinged with a heavy Antivan accent. Dorian hung back, listening.

The owner of the girlish voice was speaking. “– so that was him? The way people talk of the Inquisitor in Antiva, I expected him to be different! More handsome, and much taller, with eyes of demon fire!”

The other voice responded. Josephine. “Yvette,” she said, with a touch of exasperation. “You shouldn’t listen to such silly tales. And the Inquisitor... he is a good man, with a very difficult task. How he looks is irrelevant.”

There was a brief pause. “Why, Josie! If I didn’t know you better, I’d say it sounds like you like him!”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” the ambassador hastily replied. “I was merely pointing out that the Inquisitor has the qualities needed as a leader.”

Yvette giggled. “You _do_ like him!” she said – this rather loudly. Josephine shushed her, but she continued, undaunted. “I saw the way he was looking at you – he’s completely smitten with you!”

“Yvette!”

“But it’s true,” Yvette said, her voice smaller and unable to mask a mild hurt. “So why not give him a chance?”

“I don’t need to explain this to you,” Josephine said stiffly. “But the Inquisition is not some setting for a romance novel. I have my duty, and the Inquisitor has his.” There was a small pause. “Besides, in case you have forgotten, I am already engaged to Lord Adorno Ciel Otranto.”

_Josephine... engaged?_ Dorian wondered why this was the first he was hearing of this. This was followed by a second thought: _Does the Inquisitor even know?_ He suspected not. And furthermore, given the fact that Trevelyan was indeed smitten with the ambassador, such knowledge, once the truth finally came to light, would probably crush him.

Dorian couldn’t bear to stand the thought of Trevelyan in any sort of emotional distress. He had to do... _something._ He just wasn’t sure what.

As the women began to speak of other matters, Dorian began to formulate a plan.

***

Reaching into his coat pocket for his tool kit, Varric knelt down before the door of the Upper Royal Wing and examined the lock. Using a small candle he’d snagged from one of the nearby candelabras, he peered inside the mechanism, and was pleased to note that it was far less complex than he would have expected. Setting the candle aside, he then inserted his wrench and pick, jiggling them around experimentally until he heard a click.

Standing lookout at his side, Cassandra, arms crossed before her, huffed in exasperation. “I can’t believe you’ve talked me into this,” she grumbled. “Breaking and entering is a crime.”

Varric had been called worse things than a criminal. Ignoring her, he continued to ply the pick until he heard another telltale click. “Admit it, Seeker,” he said. “You’re enjoying the thrill.”

Cassandra huffed again. “Not in the slightest,” she said. “Though if we get caught – and surely we will – then you’d better be prepared to do some fast talking, dwarf.”

“I’ll just tell them we got lost,” Varric said. “Besides, the Inquisitor instructed us to look for clues about the Empress. Where better to find them in her own personal chambers?”

Grim faced, Cassandra just made another noise of exasperation.

_If only all my arguments with the Seeker were that easily won,_ Varric thought. Smiling to himself, he continued to ply his pick and wrench to the lock. Then, he smiled again as he heard the third and final click. Removing his tools, he then tried the latch.

The door opened into a large and opulent room. To their immediate right, there was a sitting area beside a hearth. To their left, another sitting area, this one flanked by many tall shelves lined with books. Above them, a grand chandelier illuminated the space. At the far end of the room, a small staircase.

From experience, Varric knew that most people didn’t keep their secrets in their sitting rooms. Plucking at Cassandra’s sleeve to get her attention, he nodded at the staircase. “Come on, Seeker. Let’s take a look up there.”

Her expression one of resignation, Cassandra followed Varric across the marble floor and up the stairs.

As they ascended, a bedroom came into view. At its center was perhaps the largest and most ornate bed that Varric had ever seen, one that was undeniably fit for a queen. And, in the middle of it, bound to all four of the bedposts, was a man, naked except for the plumed helmet on his head.

Cassandra muttered a curse in surprise.

Varric turned to her with a look of wry amusement. “See, Seeker? I knew we’d find something of interest in Celene’s chambers.”

The man on the bed gave them a sheepish look. “Umm... it’s not what it looks like,” he said quickly. Then he added, “Honestly, I would have preferred if it were what it looks like.”

“I bet you would,” Varric said with a snigger. “Now – talk before you anger my friend here. And believe me, you wouldn’t want to see her when she’s angry.”

Playing along, Cassandra cracked her knuckles.

The naked man’s eyes widened. Clearly he realized that he was in no position to negotiate, and thus let the words spill out. “The Empress led me to believe that I would be rewarded for betraying the Grand Duke. This... was not what I hoped for.”

By Cassandra’s expression, it was obvious that she’d caught on to what reward the man had been hoping for. Then her mouth tightened into a frown. Varric could almost read her thoughts by that scowl alone, one that said that men were foolish creatures indeed. Not that Varric could argue with that sentiment, as he’d done a few foolish things himself in regards to women – well, one woman in particular. Still, as he could relate, he felt a twinge of pity for the poor sod shackled to the bed.

At the memory of his own foolish exploits, Varric stroked a finger down Bianca’s spine. “Well, kid,” he said, “you’re not the first to be led astray by a pretty face.”

“Ugh,” Cassandra muttered. “Don’t take his side, Varric.”

Lifting his hands, Varric made an innocent _Who me?_ face. “I’m not taking any sides, Seeker. Other than our own. I was just trying to get to the bottom of this big, juicy scandal.”

“And quite the scandal it will be, when people learn about this.”

At Cassandra’s threat, the man’s eyes widened into a plea. “Please! I beg you! Don’t tell Gaspard!” he begged. “The Empress beguiled me. Into giving her information about... plans for troop movements in the Palace tonight. She knows everything. Everything! The Duke’s surprise attack has been countered before it even began.”

Varric and Cassandra listened as the man explained how Celene had planned to arrest Gaspard for treason, thus turning it into a clever trap.

Cassandra’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t know which is worse: Celene for using such a tactic, or him for falling for it.”

Perhaps because of his initial twinge of pity, Varric made the decision not to leave the man to his fate, whatever that may be. Withdrawing a dagger, he set about to freeing the man. “Look, kid,” he said as he cut the ropes, “we’ll let you go, but only on the condition that you be willing to testify against the Empress if need be.”

The man blurted out an enthusiastic response. “After what the Empress did to me? I’ll say anything you want!”

Once freed from his bonds, the man scooped up his clothes from the floor, then beat a hasty retreat down the stairs and out of the chamber, jerking on his pants as he did so.

Varric and Cassandra exchanged a glance.

“I think,” Varric said wryly, “that this constitutes what they call a clue.”

Cassandra’s look could have scorched the fur off a wolf. “We should tell the Inquisitor,” she said. “Assuming we can find him. Maker knows where he ran off to.”

Before heading to the Upper Royal Wing, they’d encountered the Inquisitor in the guest wing. He’d slipped out of the festivities in the Ballroom in order to seek some clues of his own. “He’s probably off searching for more halla statues,” Varric postulated as he sank down to the edge of the bed. “He did think they would be useful. Somehow.”

Cassandra’s expression became pained. “Is this what the Inquisition has been reduced to? Stealing?”

There was quite a lot Varric could have said about that. He shrugged carefully.

“Ugh,” she said. “Really, Varric. Surely you can’t approve of... some of the Inquisitor’s behavior.”

“In case you forgot, Seeker, I didn’t exactly sign up for your little Inquisition.”

“This again,” she grunted. “Well, Varric, you’re not a prisoner now. You are free to leave any time you like.”

“What? And miss out on how the story’s going to end? I’d be a fool.”

“You _are_ a fool,” Cassandra said, but there was no venom in her voice. “Still, this doesn’t solve the problem of how we are going to actually find the Inquisitor.”

“Well, we could just wait here,” Varric suggested. “The Inquisitor? He does seem to somehow manage to get around. There’s a good chance that whatever he finds is going to lead him right here, to Celene’s private quarters. Especially if it’s a half-naked soldier high-tailing it through the halls.”

Cassandra paused to consider that. Most likely weighing it against their other options, the most obvious one being backtracking to the Grand Ballroom and waiting for the Inquisitor’s return. And, given Cassandra’s haste to escape the sycophantic hobnobbing at the first feasible moment, a fate worse than death.

“Wait here?” she echoed. “And do what?”

Varric became suddenly aware that he was alone with the Seeker, and that he was sitting on the most opulent bed he’d ever seen, and that the Inquisition’s uniform served to only highlight the curves of Cassandra’s hourglass figure. Unable to stop himself, he glanced down at the bed, its sheets still rumpled, and the ropes still attached to the bedposts.

Into his mind, an enticing image burst, unbidden, and so vivid that it caused him to begin to stiffen. Although he never would have admitted it, it wasn’t the first time he’d had such thoughts about her. Just last night, he’d woken hard and aching from a dream about her body clinging to his, her lips dripping rubies, eyes alight with the fire of passion.

Tearing his eyes away, he looked up at the Seeker standing before him. She had caught his glance at the bed, and read all the meaning there. Yet, instead of taking offense, her eyes were tinged with something other than disgust. The same eyes she’d had in his dream.

The tension in the room was as thick as the Brecilian forest, as heavy as an anvil.

Echo of Dorian in his mind’s ear: _What are you waiting for? She’s right there._

_Men really are foolish creatures, indeed._

Impulsively, he reached out for her. She didn’t resist as Varric’s mouth crashed almost frantically into hers, and instead climbed over him to straddle his lap, a soft moan caught in her throat as Varric drew her down to the bed.

***

Dorian was having such a delightful time at the Ball that he’d almost forgotten his task of following Gaspard. At least until a hand tugged at his sleeve, and a familiar deep voice hissed into his ear. “Where have you been?”

Dorian turned to see Fenris. As usual, the elf had a brooding air about him. Given how similar this was to a soiree in Tevinter, no doubt Fenris would have preferred to be anywhere but here. “At the banquet tables,” Dorian replied airily. “By the way, have you tried the ham? It tastes of despair. Fascinating.”

Vexed, Fenris frowned at him. “We’re supposed to be watching the Duke.”

Dorian felt a treble of indignation at the implication that he’d been shirking his duty. In fact, he’d been watching Gaspard for well over an hour. Only a few moments ago had he decided to refresh his own drink and find something to eat.

“Yes, a task that even a child could manage,” Dorian complained. “Given the fact that all the man has done all night is stand up on the balcony and drink what I assume to be is the best wine in the Palace. I half wish he _would_ murder someone. It would at least liven things up.”

Fenris’ mouth twitched. “He’s not on the balcony now.”

Dorian bit back a curse. Of course their target would choose to act now, in the very moment that Dorian had taken his eyes off him. “Then... where is he now?”

“On the move.” As if to emphasize the need for expediency, Fenris tugged on his sleeve again. “Let’s go.”

Dorian allowed himself to be pulled through the crowd. Circling the room, he once again caught sight of the imposing figure of the Duke. At his side, a willowy, thin-shouldered man in a plain mask that hid his features but for his plump, plum-colored lips. Keeping at a short distance, Dorian and Fenris followed the two men around the room, then down one of the grand, sweeping staircases, and...

...straight onto the dance floor.

They pulled up short. As they watched, Gaspard took the hand of the willowy man in his. Stepping in time to the music playing, they began to dance.

For a moment, Fenris froze in uncertainty. He could see Gaspard’s lips moving, but could not hear the words. Something was happening here – he just knew it. Except there was no way to get closer to listen.

Suddenly he found himself being swept up. His arms held aloft, and his feet being forced to move. It took him a second to realize that he was in Dorian’s arms, that Dorian was making him move across the floor, and that they were...

_...dancing?_

Fenris may have been agile on his feet in battle, but he’d never been taught how to dance. Caught off guard, he nearly tripped over his own feet.

Dorian’s voice was a low hum near his ear. “People are staring,” he murmured, trying to ignore the way that Fenris was looking at him – as if he could literally stab Dorian dead with his gaze. “I suggest you put your hand on my shoulder and just let me lead.”

Fenris paused, then gave a quick nod.

Stepping closer, Dorian then slid a hand around to the small of Fenris’ back. The other continued to hold Fenris’ right hand. With reluctance, Fenris reached up to place his hand on Dorian’s shoulder.

Dorian’s mother had insisted on dance lessons, so Dorian was no stranger to ballroom dancing. Expertly, he twirled Fenris through the crowded dance floor. As he pressed his hand more firmly against Fenris’ back, Fenris flinched. _Does my touch disgust him that much?_ Keeping his expression neutral to mask his dismay, Dorian spun them both about until they were nearly on top of Gaspard and his partner.

Dorian listened.

Fenris, distracted by his own swirling thoughts, did not.

Fenris didn’t understand why his feet were refusing to follow orders. He was not usually so clumsy. All he knew was that he was being bombarded by all that was Dorian – his scent, his heat, the wine-tainted warmth of his breath, the feeling of Dorian’s gloved hand clasped with his own, the slight pressure of his body, the feel of Dorian’s other hand against the small of his back, hot as the Tevinter summer sun. His body taut, he quivered like a bow string, ready to snap. As he stumbled again, their bodies collided, causing the other markings below his uniform to flare with pain.

And yet... being in Dorian’s arms seemed like the most natural place in the world for him to be.

_Why does he feel so familiar?_

_This again._ Only it was different now that he was being touched. It was as if Dorian had reached down inside him, tugging on his heartstrings and causing them to sing. Except that it made no sense why. Like a stubborn rotten tooth, the memory refused to be pulled out.

It was sheer torture. The mix of pain and pleasure almost too much for him to bear. He was a ball of yarn, unraveling in Dorian’s arms. In another moment, he would be completely unmade. So lost in this bittersweet feeling, he’d forgotten about Gaspard, about the Inquisition, about the world.

All of a sudden Dorian released him. It took him a moment to realize that the music had come to an end. His chest heaving with his shaking breath, he could barely lift his gaze to Dorian’s face, his dark skin golden in the dewy candlelight, eyes dark as pewter.

“Well, that was interesting,” Dorian chirped as if nothing extraordinary at all had happened. “We must tell the Inquisitor what the Grand Duke said.”

***

_Putting me with this... thing... yeah, like I ain’t got better shite to do._

Moving through the servants’ quarters, the other elves stared blankly at Sera as she slinked down the corridors, clearly unable to decide what to make of her. Although her ears gave away her elvhen heritage, dressed in her uniform she obviously wasn’t no Palace servant like them. But she wasn’t _not_ one of them, either. Still, they didn’t try to stop her – even bowing down out of her way – so she decided this was fine. Convenient.

Strangely, none of them even seemed to notice the thing. Cole.

Friggin’ freaky, that. She decided not to think about it.

Yeah, they was supposed to be looking for clues about Briala, the elvhen ambassador. Least that’s what Inky wanted. Not that Sera was going out of her way to ignore that order, but she had her own agenda. Coming to the Winter Palace as a guest? There’d just been too many opportunities for Sera to ignore. Nobles hiding things for other nobles. Sera’s contacts in the Red Jennies had already tipped her off about the locations of the various stashes. And one of them just happened to be in the servants’ quarters’ gardens.

Rounding another corner, she could feel Cole’s presence behind her. Still, she nearly jumped out of her skin when he spoke just behind her shoulder, voice like mist.

“You don’t have to be afraid, Sera,” he murmured. “I won’t hurt you.”

Goosebumps had risen all over her body, despite the woolen warmth of her coat. Snapping her head to look at him, she hissed. “Go _away.”_

Pale fish-wide eyes stared at her. Except it wasn’t so much that he was looking at her eyes, but rather like he was looking _past_ her eyes. Which was creepy as all fucking balls.

“I won’t stab you when you are looking somewhere else,” he said. “I won’t do that to your boots. Or that other thing to your arrows.” Cocking his head, he then looked at her curiously. “I don’t understand what that last thing is, but I won’t do it either.”

“Why does it keep talking at me?” Sera muttered to the corridor, but there was no one in sight, not even a servant.

No one answered.

Sera shuddered again. Then re-focused. Moving forward, she reached the end of the hallway. There, through a small set of double doors, lay a square patch of greenery – mostly trimmed hedges strewn with yellow daffodils and lilies peeping out from the dark earth, waxy in the moonlight.

Gloves tucked under her belt, she knew exactly in which corner to dig. And didn’t care about the earth she scraped up under her nails. She didn’t have far to go before she stumbled across the stash – a stack of incriminating letters between two noblemen about the illegal slave trade in Orlais, wrapped up in a thin piece of protective leather.

_Better than gold,_ Sera thought as she carefully dusted off the dirt and then tucked the letters away inside her jacket. Either the Red Jennies could use the letters to ruin the lives of these nobles, or to blackmail them for coin. She hadn’t decided yet, but either option was an acceptable one.

She resisted the urge to fist bump the air. After all, she had managed to find only one of the stashes. Standing up, she brushed the dirt from her hands and craned her neck, looking about. She’d have to find a place her contacts had referred to as the low garden. Ignoring Cole, who continued to trail behind her, she made her way through the opposite door.

Following the hall, her instincts told her to turn left, then right, then right again. She was aware that all these corridors looked exactly the same. Except when she turned right once more, she found herself walking through a small set of double doors, into a garden that looked eerily familiar.

Was it the exact same one? She couldn’t tell. In the corner, she crouched down to consider the ground. Furrows of fresh, black earth, clods and worms. It did look like someone had just been digging in the dirt.

“Have we been here?” she wondered. “I mean right here, doing _exactly_ this? It feels weird.”

Cole tilted his head towards the sky. “Yes,” he said. “But not how you mean.”

Sera didn’t even want to know what _that_ meant. Standing, she brushed the dirt from her hands again. This time, instead of going into what appeared to be the opposite door, she ducked into a smaller door to the left.

Down, down, down a corridor that then turned into spiraling stairs. Skipping down them two at a time, Sera continued to ignore the presence of the spirit boy behind her. Then, near the bottom of the stairs, she noticed a heavy door. Impulsively, she tried the latch, finding it locked.

Sera took every locked door as a challenge. Within moments she had picked it open, then slipped into what appeared to be a small office.

Her intuition started tingling.

There was something here. She knew it.

She riffled through the papers on the desk. Checked the drawers for secret compartments. Fingered the edges of the curtains and felt behind the framed canvases. Finally, beneath a portrait of some dead emperor or other, Sera found something of interest.

A safe.

Locked.

Her fingers itched.

Yet, no matter how hard she pressed her ear near the tumblers, she wasn’t able to crack open the safe.

Cole’s whispery voice warbled through the space between them. “Nine... fourteen... seven.”

Just the sound of that thing’s voice was enough to cause Sera to shudder with dread again. Still, she turned the knob clockwise to nine, then counterclockwise to fourteen, then back round to seven. As she reached the final number, she heard the telltale _click._

Reaching in, Sera fished about. There was only one object in the safe and Sera pulled it out, surprised to find that it was only a simple locket.

Cole appeared at the edge of her vision, just behind her shoulder. “Hot breath on the nape of a neck, a forbidden love, a stolen kiss. She doesn’t know that the heart of the empress, yearning, still whispers her name in the night. _Briala...”_

Sera nearly jumped out of her skin again. “Shut up!” she barked. Enough was enough. She didn’t care what Inky had to say about it, but she sure as shite wasn’t going to keep on with Mister Creepy Thing breathing down her neck. Shoving the locket into her pocket, Sera made a dash past Cole to the door.

“Sera...?”

Sera bolted.

***

_Alone again._

Cole floated down the silent corridor. Beneath his softly-clacking boots, the marble floor echoed his footsteps. Intermittent candelabra shed small pools of light, illuminating the path. Numerous archways rose up to meet high-vaulted ceilings, while from the shadowed niches statues of mythical beasts seemed on the verge of coming to life, their cold faces silently menacing him.

It didn’t disturb him that Sera had abandoned him here. Nor was he truly surprised. For as long as he could remember, he’d always been alone. An outsider, shunned. At least until he’d followed _them,_ invisible and not wanting to be seen, all the way from Haven to Skyhold. Where Trevelyan had seen him. Spoken to him, and even treated him like a friend.

No, it didn’t matter that Sera had run away from him. They’d fulfilled the task that the Inquisitor had given them, that of finding a clue. A secret uncovered – Trevelyan could find the best way to use it. Nor did it matter that he was far from the Ballroom. As brief as it had been, he hadn’t liked being there among a sea of strangers, with their strange faces.

_They have faces inside their faces,_ he thought. _Lying with a layer that tells the truth. I don’t know how to help them._

He only wanted to be able to help. In particular, he wanted to help Dorian and Fenris. Even from a distance, he could hear their pain like a song, sharp shards of discordant notes plucked wickedly in the air to vibrate in his ear. Pain that each man kept hidden beneath their own faces.

He’d tried to help Fenris, but the angry elf had only chased him off out of his room every time that Cole had appeared, unwilling to listen. As for Dorian, he’d built a high wall around his very own heart, sealing away all his feelings, where Cole couldn’t even reach him.

Now, as he walked down the silent corridor, he came upon a crossroads. He recognized it, having passed this way before with Sera. He knew that if he continued straight ahead, he would eventually find himself back in the Ballroom with the others. Or he could go to the right, which would take him back to the servants’ quarters, where he could continue to search for clues about Briala on his own. Or, to the left –

A sudden tongue of fire seared through his flesh.

He hadn’t expected that. He tried to whirl about, to see the face of his attacker, but the blade lodged between his ribs slowed him down. Then, without warning, Cole felt his knees buckle beneath him, and the floor rushed up to meet his face.

_Inquisitor, this body can feel pain. It hurts it hurts it hurts!_

Above him, a hooded figure with a shadow instead of a face. Cole’s body was beyond his control now. It twitched once as the cloaked stranger jerked out the knife. Fingers curled uselessly against the cold, hard marble. Drops of his blood blotted the floor by his face as it dripped from the silver edge. In the dim light, he could see a thin sickly green shimmer on the blade.

He could feel the poison inside him, crawling through his blood. Limbs already numb, he could feel it being pushed by each strong beat of his heart, up through his neck and back down into his chest, arteries and veins swelling into ropes, constricting his lungs and his heart.

The thought suddenly struck him.

_I am dying._

His hat had fallen from his head. Through the pale spiderweb strands of his hair, he stared up at the shadow. He could scarcely feel the assassin’s hand as it rifled through his pockets, seeking something – some letter, some clue, the locket? He didn’t even know what they were looking for, or why they had killed him.

Within the assassin, Cole could sense their hurt.

He latched onto it.

The knowledge nearly unmade him.

_We’ve made a terrible mistake._

Against his tightening lungs, Cole struggled to draw a breath. His lips barely moving, he wheezed his final words out before the dark wings of death swooped down to claim him.

_Inquisitor, it’s already too late._

_We will lose._

***

The music came to an end.

Dorian was certain he’d never seen anyone move as quickly as Fenris as he awkwardly untangled himself from Dorian’s arms. The unspoken rejection stung more than he would have expected. _Does he really find me that repulsive?_ Dorian wondered. Studying Fenris’ blank expression, however, yielded no clues.

All of a sudden, Fenris’ hand clamped down upon his shoulder. Into Dorian’s ear, Fenris’ voice was a hiss through gritted teeth. “He’s leaving. We must follow.”

With a jerk of his head, he indicated Gaspard, now moving towards the Ballroom’s main entrance. So focused on Fenris, all thoughts of what Dorian was supposed to be doing with Fenris – watching Gaspard – had suddenly flown straight out of his head.

Dorian forced a smile. “I do hope he’s going somewhere for some fresh air,” he said. “Grand Ballrooms can get so stuffy, don’t you find?”

In response, Fernis merely grunted. Then he turned away, already in pursuit of Gaspard, without even a glance back to see if Dorian were following.

As Dorian scampered after him, his gaze floated down Fenris’ back. The Grand Ball – with its scheming nobles, vicious gossip, and assassination plots – truly did remind him of the parties he’d attended back in Tevinter, and he wondered if tension in those shoulders was for the same reason. From his conversations with Varric, Dorian knew that Danarius had ordered his pet to serve wine at parties, knowing that Fenris’ appearance would intimidate his guests.

Not for the first time, Dorian wondered: _What if?_ What if he had seen Fenris in Minrathous, while he was still a slave? What if he’d been able to rescue him then? How many years of suffering and sorrow could have been avoided, _if only he’d known?_

Lost in thought as he trailed behind Fenris through the twisting corridors, their bodies nearly collided as the elf pulled up short just before a corner. Muttering to himself about _fucking boots,_ as he reached down and began tugging them off.

“What _are_ you doing?” Dorian hissed at him. Granted, it was obvious, but running around barefoot at a ball? It just wasn’t _done._ Even the elvhen servants wore shoes.

Fenris shushed him. Then, boots discarded against the wall in a niche, he peered around the corner. With a wave of his hand, he beckoned at Dorian, then continued on, his bare feet silent upon the marble floor.

Sighing, Dorian followed.

Passing through a door, they found themselves in a large garden.

Stone paths were lined with tall hedges. Moving forward, the path opened up onto a large octagonal clearing with a tall fountain bubbling at the center, the paths branching off in several directions.

Fenris pulled up short. Swore just under his breath. In Tevene, so Dorian knew that it was serious. But, before he could speak, Fenris answered his unasked question. “We lost him.”

Trevelyan had given them one task. Dorian was sure that Gaspard was up to _something_. To have lost track of him _now_ – well, it was awkward at best. “Well,” Dorian began, “surely if we just –”

The mage did not get to finish that sentence as an arrow out of nowhere zinged by his ear. As Dorian jerked back in surprise, a dozen men in dark clothing poured out from the paths, all of them armed and rushing forward to attack.

Roaring, Fenris was already in motion, drawing his sword and jumping into the fray. Quickly surrounded, the elf roared again as he spun about. The _clang!_ of steel against steel reverberated through the night.

Dorian cursed, wishing that he’d been carrying his mage staff – an item, unlike Fenris’ dress sword, that had naturally been prohibited at the Ball. Stumbling back, he lifted his hands before his face, his mind scrambling for a spell. As half a dozen men with upraised blades ran at him, the words tripped off his lips just in time. Just as the six swords came swinging at his head, electricity zapped to life in his hands, then jumped to strike each of his six attackers in the chest. As if bashed by a god’s hammer, each man flew backwards, landing in a heap in the hedges, and were still.

The sickening smell of sizzling human flesh filled the air.

Dorian dared a glance at Fenris. The elf had knocked down two of his foes, but was still outnumbered four to one. Spinning wildly, the elf just barely managed to keep his attackers at bay. Four pairs of dark eyes exchanged hasty glances, then one of them mouthed something to the others.

At that moment, Dorian realized something.

_They are going to ambush him._

Fingers crackling with magical energy, Dorian stepped forward, intending to aid his companion. Yet, at that moment, Fenris must have sensed the danger. All of a sudden, his lyrium markings flared a bright blue, causing him to glow like Veilfire in the dark. Briefly, his image seemed to waver, like an oasis in the desert, and then Dorian witnessed the true nature of Fenris’ power.

_Lyrium ghost._

Too astonished to move, Dorian watched in utter fascination as Fenris became no more than a mere trace of a body outlined in blue. Insubstantial, his attackers swords passed straight through him. Yet, each time Fenris thrust with his own sword, a man doubled over with a cry, dropping to the ground as Fenris jerked his ghost sword back out.

Blood spattered the marble fountain, and pooled on the pale flagstones.

Three times, Fenris murdered.

Fenris didn’t use his sword on the last man. Instead, with a growl of rage, he plunged his fist deep into the man’s chest. As Fenris rummaged around inside him, the sword slipped from the man’s hands to clatter on the bloodied stone, his face frozen in a rictus of terror. A second passed, then – to Dorian’s complete shock – Fenris jerked back his arm.

In his fist, the man’s heart.

It beat once. Twice. Three times.

Dorian had one thought only.

_Vishante kaffas._

As the man’s dead body crumpled to the ground, Fenris, his battle rage spent, extinguished his markings. For a moment, he considered the man’s heart in his hand as casually and indifferently as if he were holding a peach. Then, loosening his fingers, he let the heart drop. Dorian didn’t know if it was just his imagination, but he would have sworn that the organ made a noise as it hit the ground – a faint thump, like the sound of wet, melting snow that slides and falls from a roof onto the snow below.

As blood dripped from his fingers, Fenris’ green eyes – gaze still indifferent – lifted, and met Dorian’s from across the clearing.

Speechless, Dorian could only stare back.

In the silence, the fountain bubbled joyously.

Somehow managing to find his composure, Dorian cleared his throat. Then, he let his eyes roam about the garden. Littered with corpses, there would be no hiding _this_. He was about to suggest that they beat a hasty retreat, when his gaze fell upon the feathered tail of an arrow just barely sticking out of a nearby hedge.

In the fracas, he’d forgotten about the arrow. Spinning, he raised his gaze, now scanning the buildings that rose up on the other side of the gardens. Where, on a small balcony, he spotted a lone archer, bow in hand, and arrow nocked.

Aiming straight at Fenris.

Before Dorian could do anything, the archer loosed his arrow.

Something inside Dorian snapped. Whirling, he pushed off from the ground, dashing towards Fenris, his intention to either push the elf out of the way, or to make his own body a shield – even he didn’t know. As he ran, without thinking, he shouted his warning. Shouted his companion’s name.

Except the name he called out was not _Fenris._

***

Much later, as the Empress moved to take her place at the topmost balcony, Cassandra pushed through the crowd to reach the Inquisitor’s side. “If the assassin is going to strike, it will be now,” she murmured. “What should we do?”

In his jacket pocket, Trevelyan’s hand tightened around the locket that Sera had given him. In his other, a sheaf of incriminating documents, and in his head, the knowledge that no one standing on that dais – Florianne, Gaspard, Briala, and the Empress herself – was innocent.

Also in his head? A plan to save Empress Celene and Orlais.

Trevelyan straightened his shoulders, his bottom lip jutting out with determination. “Wait here, Cassandra. I’m going to have a word with the Grand Duchess.”

The look Cassandra gave him was one of great approval. Varric, who had been trailing behind the Seeker, however, regarded him skeptically.

“There’s no time,” the dwarf warned. “You won’t be able to stop her.”

A sparkle of mirth twinkled in Trevelyan’s dark eyes as his mouth twitched up in his crooked grin. “Watch me.”

***

A well-deserved glass of wine in hand, Dorian leaned back against the pillar, half-watching the floor as the revelers continued to dance.

Of course no one congratulated the Inquisition for their role in saving Empress Celene’s life. Fortunately, he and Fenris had managed to evade the archer’s arrows in the gardens – Fenris by ghosting out of existence again, then by both of them running. Thus, they had made it back to the Ballroom in time to watch Trevelyan swoop in and arrest the Grand Duchess.

A glorious victory for the Inquisition. Dorian couldn’t remember the last time he’d actually enjoyed a party this much, and he hadn’t even been drunk. A problem he was most determined to rectify immediately.

At some point during all the excitement, Fenris had slipped off without a word. Gone in search of the relative privacy of the wine cellar, Dorian supposed. No doubt the selection of wines in the Winter Palace would be extraordinary, and a part of him wouldn’t have minded exploring its treasures. However, he still had some unfinished business.

Dorian filtered his way through the crowds until he found the person he was seeking.

The Inquisition’s ambassador.

“Ah, Josephine,” he purred, with a smile that was all white teeth. “Just the person I was looking for.”

Josephine could barely cover up her surprise. “I am?” she asked. Then her expression became concerned. “Is there something wrong?”

“No, no, nothing wrong,” Dorian reassured her. Slipping his arm to link with hers, he began to lead her towards the door of the nearest balcony. “It’s just that the Inquisitor wished to speak to you. In private.”

“Is it about the Duchess?” she asked. “Because Celene has agreed to let the Inquisition decide her fate. Our soldiers have secured her for the trip back to Skyhold.”

“No, it isn’t about the Duchess,” Dorian said, as he steered her forward. “In fact, what the Inquisitor wants to ask you is more... personal.”

Josephine blinked. “Personal...?”

The truth was that the Inquisitor had actually slipped out to the balcony in order to have a few moments to himself. However, by the ambassador’s expression, she had bought Dorian’s lie. “You do know how to dance, I imagine?”

Suddenly, Josephine flustered. “Yes... I mean, I...”

“Good,” Dorian said. Then, with a sweet smile, he placed his hand on the small of Josephine’s back and gently pushed her through the door to the balcony.

***

Leaning on the banister, Trevelyan stared out at the rolling hills. In the distance, the lights of Val Royeaux twinkled like so many fireflies, just like the stars smeared in the sky above, the moon round and bright and perfect as a pearl. So shiny, he half wished he could just scoop it up and put it in his pocket.

All night he had been tense, his neck and shoulders tight. For a moment, he just breathed in the warm night air, allowing his tension to drain away. Blissfully alone, he could finally be himself, away from the nasty rumors and the whispers behind his back.

He tensed again as soft footsteps approached. Turning his head, however, he was relieved to see that it was Josephine.

In her regal uniform, and her dark hair coiled up into braids, by the light of the moon she was beautiful.

Her dark eyes swept over him. “Are you all right? You look troubled.”

As she leaned closer to him, Trevelyan felt his heart skip a beat. “It’s just been a long night.”

With genuine concern, Josephine leaned forward and placed a hand warmly on his shoulder. “Is there anything I can do? Can I get you anything? A drink, perhaps?”

At her touch, Trevelyan swallowed hard. “No... I... uh, I’m fine...”

So close to him, he could smell her perfume. Something floral, with a hint of brilliant orange. She didn’t withdraw her hand. “Dorian said that you wanted to ask me something.”

Trevelyan wracked his brain. He hadn’t really even spoken to Dorian all evening, much less tell him that he wanted to ask Josephine something. “I’m... sorry?”

“Oh!” She suddenly pulled back her hand. “I thought... well, he said something about dancing.”

The bitterness of the loss of her touch was so real that Trevelyan could taste it – it tasted like candle soot and elfroot. She was about to pull away from him, and the pain of that knowledge stuck in the bottom of his throat, a lump as hard as a walnut.

When it came to love, Trevelyan had never gotten what he wanted. He thought he’d been resigned to that fate. But then, when he’d met Josephine, he’d felt something he hadn’t felt in a very long time.

Hope.

As Inquisitor, he’d learned when to be bold. Despite his fear, he forced himself to reach out, to capture Josephine’s hand. As he eyes widened, Trevelyan swallowed hard again against the walnut in his throat. “Would you care to dance with me, Lady Josephine?”

Josephine blinked. Then a genuine, warm smile unfurled across her lips. “I... was hoping you’d ask, my Lord.”

His heart soared as the ambassador stepped forward, into his waiting arms. Trevelyan wasn’t by any means a good dancer, but it didn’t seem to matter as he moved his feet, sweeping the woman he loved across the balcony.

Everything had gone according to plan. And now what he had secretly longed for all these months – this woman in his arms – was his.

He couldn’t have been happier.

Happiness was short-lived however. They’d only been dancing for a few moments when Leliana appeared at the balcony door, his expression grave. Pulling apart, Trevelyan and Josephine stared at her.

“Leliana...?”

“Inquisitor, I’m sorry to interrupt, but I have news,” Leliana said, unable to mask the quiver in her voice. “It’s about Cole...”

 


	9. The Scar on His Mind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to everyone who left comments on the last chapter. Even though I didn't have a chance to respond to them, I truly appreciate them! :)

Fade energy buzzed across Dorian’s skin, causing the hairs on his body to rise.

An echo of the Nightmare’s voice rattled through his skull, which was otherwise empty of thoughts. He wasn’t certain what he was doing, or even how he had gotten here. He was cold and confused, but otherwise vacant.

A figure cut past him. Flash of Grey Warden armor, all silver and blue, blond hair, sword in hand. Alistair’s mouth moved in slow motion as he darted past. _We must seal the rift!_ His voice muffled as if Dorian’s ears were clogged up with cotton wool. But before he could respond, Alistair had already vanished in the mist.

Green mist, that roiled and shimmied like serpents, twisting lasciviously in the air in some sort of perverse mating dance, continually dissipating and reforming. So thick, he could barely see the staff in his outstretched hand. Mist that tasted of hot metal and despair.

More figures flew by him. Cassandra, Varric, the Champion. Then Trevelyan, his hair streaming out behind him in bizarrely rainbow-colored strands, his face hidden by a horse head mask. Before he disappeared, his head spun round as if jerked by a puppet master’s string.

_Dorian! You mustn’t forget!_

Dorian puzzled over that. _Had_ he forgotten something? And, yet, he knew by the Inquisitor’s unusual appearance that none of this was real. He was in the Fade.

Dreaming.

It felt real. Realer than reality. The slickness of the staff in his hand, the smell of the air, the way the colors blazed – every detail bore a weight, more intense and vivid than it would have been on the material plane. But, as a mage of his caliber, Dorian was very familiar with Fade energy – how to draw upon it, how to bend it, and how to use it to reshape reality to his will. A lesser-attuned man would remain unaware that he was in the Fade until he woke up, chasing after the tail end of his fading dream.

Dreams had their own logic. There was a reason why he was in this place, and not somewhere more pleasant – say, in one of those lesser-known bathhouses tucked discretely away in a a certain quarter of Minrathous, where men who shared his tastes could eye each other between the glistening marble statues of male nudes and the leafy palm fronds, while scantily-clad elvhen slaves circulated with golden trays bearing flutes of fine wine and magically chilled grapes. Something in his subconscious was demanding to be pulled out and scrutinized in the cold, unforgiving light of Dorian’s intellect.

Something repressed. Something he’d forgotten.

Adjusting his collar, Dorian trudged down the rocky slope, trailing after the others.

He couldn’t see very far because of the mist. He couldn’t hear them either. Nothing but the stony silence which swallowed up his footsteps and the soft click of the tip of the wooden staff he used to steady himself. Eventually, however, the mist circling around him began to thin, disappearing entirely as the trail he’d been cautiously following dumped him into a small clearing made of glossy, volcanic rock.

What he saw in the center of the clearing caused him to draw up short, heart thundering ferociously against his ribcage as a small animal noise burst out of his throat.

A light from an invisible source shone down, illuminating the two figures clearly. One was Cole, head bent so his hat obscured his face. His clothes were spattered in blood, his bare arms so completely slicked with red that it almost seemed as if he were wearing crimson gloves. Resting his buttocks on his heels, he knelt in a pool of gore.

The other man was Cullen. His body brutally torn wide open, his expression frozen in a horrified rictus, dead eyes staring directly at Dorian. Upon the ground all around the corpse were Cullen’s organs, wet and glossy with blood, which Cole was scooping up in his bloodied hands in an attempt to shove them back in.

Dorian watched in horror as Cole pushed in a dark slab of liver, then a length of ropy intestine. Except that each body part he forced back into the gaping cavity that had been Cullen’s midsection caused another part to slide back out again.

An eternal, futile struggle to put a smashed raw egg back together again.

Dorian didn’t want to see this. No, he most certainly did _not._ Yet even as he entertained the notion of fleeing this gruesome scene, thick roots snapped up out of the ground to slither up over his calves, effectively forcing him to remain in place. Forcing him to relive the spectacle of Cullen’s eviscerated body on the sludge-thick ground.

_Dorian! You mustn’t forget!_

Watching Cole’s attempts, however, was more than he could bear. He had to stop the spirit. But he was surprised when his voice actually rasped out a sound. “Cole...?”

Cole’s slick hands ceased their frantic movements. For a moment, they hovered in the air. Then Dorian gasped as Cole lifted his head.

Threads of blood radiated in streaks over the white skin from the dark, hollow sockets that were once Cole’s eyes. Terror iced Dorian’s blood as Cole’s empty, ruined sockets seemed to fix upon him.

 _Dorian..._ Cole whispered, a thin, desperate plea infused with heart-wrenching pain. Hands in a martyr-position above Dorian’s lover’s corpse, open, palms up, empty. _They don’t fit anymore, Dorian... Why can’t I make them fit?_

A scream became lodged in Dorian’s throat. It remained trapped with Dorian’s breath, leaving him soundless.

A thin line of blood dribbled out from Cole’s nose as he cocked his head in Dorian’s direction. Ignored, the red trickle coursed over his lips to drip down off his chin.

 _You didn’t let him tell you how he felt,_ Cole whispered. _That he loved you more than the sun. That he would have killed for you. Died for you._

Dorian didn’t want to hear this.No – anything but this. He wanted to scream – _Stop, Maker, please stop_ – but he couldn’t force the words past his lips.

But Cole didn’t stop. _And you loved him. The way you loved Rilienus,_ the spirit continued to whisper, this time directly in Dorian’s head, without moving his lips. _But you lost them, Dorian. You failed them. And now it’s too late –_

 _Anything but this._ He had to get out, by any measure. Out of this nightmare, away from the spirit who was tearing him apart, word by brutal word. As Dorian slammed his staff against the ground, the scream burst out of his throat, in the form of an incantation for fire.

He was his own target. Dream magic pooled and twisted around him for a second before exploding into a fiery inferno, and engulfing Dorian’s body in flames.

For a moment, all was pain.

Wide-eyed, Dorian jolted awake in bed, a choking cry stuck in his throat.

Almost immediately he conjured up a small flame in his shaking hand, then used it to light the nearby lamp.

It took him a moment to accept that this – the small bed with its sheets too rough for his delicate skin, in this small, drafty room of Skyhold – was indeed reality. That he had managed to escape the nightmare in the Fade.

_Dorian! You mustn’t forget!_

It hit him suddenly. He was sweat-drenched and trembling, his stomach clenched, alone in the middle of the night.

Absolutely, dreadfully alone.

Each realization was like a nail being driven into his heart.

Cullen was dead.

Cole was dead.

Leto was a stranger to him now.

_Cullen was dead._

After Alistair had carried him out of the Fade at Adamant, he’d eventually come to his senses. By the tears streaming down Trevelyan’s face, it was clear that something terrible had happened. He hadn’t known what it was at first. Only once the fog had lifted did it occur to him to seek out Cullen.

Trevelyan had tried to stop him from seeing Cullen’s body. Determined, Dorian had shrugged the Inquisitor off his sleeve, and forced his way into the battlefield.

What he had seen there made him regret that he had.

It had been too great a shock to his system. Unable to even wrap his thoughts about what he was seeing, Dorian only felt numb. It seemed impossible. Unreal. And since that moment, he’d been stumbling around blindly, drinking heavily to keep that awful vision at bay, pretending that none of it had ever happened. Pretending that he and the Commander hadn’t been _in love._

Dorian rarely cried. He’d come close in Redcliff when he’d confronted his father, but he couldn’t remember the last time he’d actually cried. He hadn’t even shed a tear over Cullen’s death. He’d wondered if that made him a heartless monster.

_Cullen was dead._

All the grief and sorrow in the world swelled inside him now, all at once. It ran through him like demon claws – piercing his brain, ravaging his soul, and shredding his heart.

Dorian Pavus, the man who didn’t cry, wept hard and wept ugly, the sobs of pure agony reverberating against the cold stone walls of the empty room.

***

Fenris sat uneasily among the droning buzz of soldier’s voices. The oily smoke from untrimmed lamps. The stifling heat of the crowded room that was occasionally interrupted by a chilling breeze that seemed to snake up his spine any time the door was thrown open.

Peanut shells were scattered across the bar, worn slick by numerous patrons. Briefly he wondered exactly how old it was. From Varric – who’d collected an impressive amount of knowledge about Skyhold for the purpose of including more detail in his next book – he’d learned that the tavern had once been a meeting place for the elves who had once lived here, and that the wood for the bar had been slabbed at the same time as the table in the War Room.

So very old. Fenris wondered about it. How many elvhen and human hands had ghosted across its surface?

Beside him, the lieutenant of the Chargers slicked a finger through the circle of condensation his mug had left on the bar. “So,” Krem rumbled. “How about it? We could use an elf with your skills.”

Since Adamant – since he’d lost _Hawke_ – Fenris had been floating through the days, with no purpose save the one the Inquisition gave him. Trevelyan had decided that he was going to adopt the elf, the result was that Fenris had been traveling at his side ever since. He’d wanted to hate Trevelyan – after all, if it hadn’t been for the Inquisition, then Hawke would still be here, at Fenris’ side. _Safe._ But the events at Adamant hadn’t been his fault, and his sympathy for Fenris’ loss so _genuine,_ that Fenris found it impossible to blame him, much less muster up enough antipathy to hate.

It helped. Letting the Inquisition’s cause fill the empty space that Hawke had left behind made his days almost bearable. Nights were far more difficult. For the first week, he’d grieved with Varric, drinking until he’d managed to drown his sorrows in wine, and waking up in his bed without remembering how he’d arrived there. Since then, he’d cut back on the wine, and instead allowed himself to be distracted in the evenings by playing cards with the dwarf, or nursing a few drinks with the Chargers.

It was a large company, and its members came and went, but Fenris had gotten to know a few of them, and didn’t dislike them. In particular, since they’d begun sparring together in the training yard, Fenris had gotten along rather well with the straightforward lieutenant. Most of their conversations involved steel, however – despite being from Tevinter – Krem stayed far away from the topic of their common homeland. Which suited Fenris just fine. There was absolutely nothing about his years in Tevinter worth speaking of.

At least that he could remember.

Fenris watched Krem trace his finger along his beardless jaw, waiting for Fenris’ answer. At some point, Krem had invited him to join the Chargers. Fenris had said he would think about it, though to be honest, before Hawke he’d always envisioned himself on his own. _A lone wolf._ Not as part of a mercenary company.

Perhaps it was time for change?

“I’ve promised the Inquisitor use of my sword,” Fenris finally said. “Perhaps when this is over... we shall see.”

Krem made a thoughtful grunt. “Fair enough,” he said. “Chief wants to stay until the end, so it ain’t like the Chargers are going anywhere.”

Fenris nodded once, slowly. “I will keep your offer in mind.”

Krem reached for his tankard. He took a long swig of the cheap dwarven swill, then wiped the foam from his lips with the back of his hand before setting the mug back down on the bar again. “Oh, yeah, I almost forgot. There’s something I wanted to give you.”

Curious, Fenris watched as Krem reached under his armor. The Charger rummaged around a bit before his fingers found the sought-after object, which he withdrew and then placed carefully on the bar, avoiding the wet rings.

The item in question was a little too large to fit in the palm of Fenris’ hand. Made of soft-looking pink material, with small, even stitches holding the stuffing in, it had tiny black buttons for eyes and a mouth made of thread.

A nug. With gossamer wings.

Fenris stared at it blankly for a moment, trying to fathom exactly why Krem had given him this... toy. He didn’t know. But he was also aware – by Krem’s expectant expression – that the Charger was eager for his response.

“Uh... thank you.”

“Yep,” Krem said. Smirking, he then lifted the tankard to his lips again.

Puzzled, Fenris reached out for the nug. Under his hand, the material was indeed very soft. Other than Hawke, no one had ever given him a present before – not even Varric. Touched by the gesture, Fenris felt strangely pleased, as though his insides had been wrapped in a warm, fuzzy blanket.

This feeling of goodwill was instantly dashed when Dorian Pavus entered the tavern, then made his way across the room, and leaned next to Fenris up against the bar.

Gray eyes slid over to them. Noticing that both warriors were staring at him, Dorian forced a cheerful smile. “Reminiscing about our home country?”

As usual, the mage’s presence was enough to set Fenris’ nerves on edge. From the moment they’d met, Fenris had been trying to ignore that nagging sense of... _familiarity_ he felt whenever he saw the man. Except now, he couldn’t deny it to himself anymore.

Dorian had called him _Leto._

His wall of denial had already been slipping. That dream he’d had of sunshine, of open fields, of being able to be _touched without pain_ – even that he could have dismissed as wishful longing for something he’d never be able to have. But that didn’t explain what had happened to him when Dorian had pulled him into his arms, and danced him across the ballroom of the Winter Palace.

Earlier, in the carriage ride from Skyhold to the Palace, he’d been too distracted to notice. Only in the ballroom he he become aware of it. Aware of Dorian’s scent.

The dead boy’s words had echoed around and around in his head, in a startling revelation, almost dizzying him.

_Like citrus peels and caramelized copper._

Dorian had been wearing some sort of perfume at the ball. With a hint of something floral that was balanced out by something more musky, such as sandalwood. His breath all wine, nearly masking a tease of sage and mint. But beneath it, Fenris could smell him. His skin.

A touch of bitter and oily citrus. Something sugary. Metallic. All mixing together in a way that was so very familiar. A lost memory that Cole had somehow managed to pluck from the depths of his mind.

He’d believed that the ritual had wiped his memories permanently. But, he wondered, what if they were still there? Not lost forever, but merely buried beyond his reach?

 _Enough._ Fenris had to know. He ignored Dorian’s innocuous question completely, instead narrowing his eyes and letting his agitation roughen his tone. _“Vishante kaffas,_ Pavus. Did we know each other in Tevinter?”

At Fenris’ use of his surname, Dorian froze. He remained still for a moment, expression neutral, except for the hand he’d set upon the bar, fingers now curling up to claw into the wood.

“Funny,” Dorian said, voice steady. “I’d thought we’d already had this conversation before. In the gardens, if you’ll recall. When I nearly –”

Fenris cut him off sharply. _“You called my name.”_

This time, the fingers on both of Dorian’s hands twitched. Briefly, his eyes darted about before he forced himself to meet the elf’s gaze again. “Ah... that...” he murmured. “Umm... Varric told me?”

That was possibly the most unconvincing lie that Fenris had ever heard.

Leaning closer, Fenris hissed out his next words. “Varric. Didn’t. Know.”

Dorian’s eyes widened. This conversation wasn’t going anywhere good, he knew that. At best, it would be ripping the scab off an old wound. He made to leave. “You know, I just remembered something I need to be doing.”

Fenris’ hand clamped down on his hard, hard enough to hurt, preventing Dorian from skulking away. “You knew me before,” Fenris seethed, each word cold and sharp as an icicle. “When I was a slave.” His grip tightened. “What depraved thing did you make me do?”

Dorian’s face twisted in shock. “Is that... is _that_ what you think?” he sputtered. “That I... made _use_ of you when you were a slave?”

Fenris stared at him, unforgiving.

Rage flared in Dorian’s chest. He tried, unsuccessfully, to swallow it down. “You fucking elf,” he growled, voice rising. “Do you have any idea how it feels? That you don’t remember? After what we –”

Dorian suddenly stopped talking.

 _After what we.... what?_ What the fuck did that even mean?

He was still gripping Dorian’s wrist. Furious and frustrated, Fenris _pushed._ Released from the elf’s hold, Dorian staggered back a step. _“Kaffas,_ do you think I like this? Having lost I don’t even know how many years of my life?”

Suddenly Krem was between them, creating a physical barrier. His eyes darted between the two men. “All right,” he muttered. “If you’re gonna fight, at least take it outside.”

Fenris realized that he’d flared his markings unaware. With effort, he extinguished them, still glaring at the mage over Krem’s shoulder.

Dorian stared back at him.

His expression was... _strange._

Then Dorian made a show of casually stroking his hands down over his robes, tugging them back into place. “So then...” he said, his voice low. “If you could have those years back... if you could remember them... is that something you’d want?”

Fenris froze. A moment ticked by, then his eyes flicked to Krem and he gave the Charger a nod. Reading the gesture as a dismissal, Krem gave Dorian one brief, sharp warning glance before picking up his tankard and slipping off, though he paused to clap Fenris briefly on the shoulder. The gesture said: _I’ll be just over there if you need me._

Watching each other, the men eased themselves down upon the barstools.

“Well?” Dorian prompted.

Fenris had always felt... _incomplete._ Danarius had stolen more than his childhood from him, the magister had erased over half his life. “And if I did?”

Dorian pursed his lips, thoughtful. “Have you ever remembered anything before?” he asked suddenly. “From before the ritual, I mean.”

Varania. He’d remembered playing with her when they were children while their mother worked. Sometimes in his dreams he would have flashes of people and places that seemed to familiar to him, but in the morning the memories would slip, evaporating like smoke, from his grasp. And then, when he’d first slept with Hawke....

 _No. Not that. Not Hawke..._ Fenris seized that thought and shut it down quick before it could shred him into pieces again.

His answer was brusque. “Yes. I have.”

“They’re still in there, then. In your head,” Dorian said. “You know – if you wished it – I could restore them.”

That gave Fenris pause. “You could... do that?”

Dorian gave a lilting shrug. “I doubt it would be very difficult for someone of my skill.” Dorian paused, then cocked his head, studying Fenris curiously. “Didn’t you have mage friends in Kirkwall? Couldn’t _they_ have helped you?”

Fenris snorted. “One was a blood mage,” he said, voice gruff. “The other one was a maniac.”

“Hmm,” Dorian hummed. “Well, in case you were wondering... I’m neither of those.”

Fenris snorted softly again as he reached for his tankard. “The latter is debatable.”

 _Hmph! Maker, this fucking elf..._ Most of the time Dorian didn’t know whether he wanted to set him on fire with magic...

_….or with kisses._

Just the thought of _that_ was enough to arouse him. Shifting on the barstool, he crossed his legs in hopes that it would quash his inappropriate desire. When Fenris’ green eyes slid over his, he spoke again. “So, what do you say? Are you going to accept my offer?”

Fenris’ lips tightened down into a thin line. Gaze moody – but not murderous. “And let you use magic on me?” he muttered. “No.”

“Fine,” Dorian said airily as he stood up, straightening his robes again. “Suit yourself.”

Fenris watched as Dorian made his way towards the door of the tavern. He didn’t glance back. Only once he was out the door did Fenris realize that Dorian still hadn’t answered his question about how the mage had known his name.

***

They hadn’t left Skyhold in a while. Not since their return from the Winter Palace. Trevelyan refused to budge from Josephine’s side. He insisted that their ambassador remain in bed, her ankle – twisted accidentally when she’d stumbled out of the carriage – propped up on pillows. Insisted on being the one to fetch Josephine whatever she wanted – hot chocolate, a new book to read, or those luscious little teacakes from that fancy bakery in Val Chevin – with the eager enthusiasm of a puppy. And completely ignoring Josephine’s protests that she was still able to work, and that the Inquisition _needed_ her.

Trevelyan had shut down nearly all of his ambassador’s protests, though he’d allowed Leliana and Cassandra to bring reports to the bedside, but only so that Josephine wouldn’t fall too far behind in her duties.

It was one afternoon when Josephine had gently shooed Trevelyan out the door in order to consider the most recent stack of reports in peace, that Dorian found himself sitting on the floor of the Inquisitor’s quarters, drinking tea and eating some of the extra Orlesian teacakes, and listening to the man talk.

Cole’s death had shaken Trevelyan to his core. That much had been obvious to anyone who knew him. And yet his blossoming relationship with the ambassador was almost a magical thing, casting light into the darkness, illuminating everything with hope.

Dorian listened. He considered himself the last person who should be giving advice about love. He knew little about it, other than _it always ends badly._ Still, he wasn’t so callous that he would even dream of bursting his dearest friend’s fragile and insecure little bubble of happiness.

He listened as the Inquisitor babbled on about Josephine’s finer qualities. Nodded encouragingly. Smiled until his face ached. And then pretended he wasn’t offended when Trevelyan abandoned him the very second that a servant appeared to inform the Inquisitor that Ambassador Montilyet had requested his presence.

Alone, Dorian wound his way slowly down the stairs and headed back to his own room.

It was strange how light Dorian’s mood was. As if Trevelyan’s happiness had somehow managed to infect him like a disease. Trevelyan was in love for the first time, and although Dorian felt as if – given his own experiences – he ought to be more bitter about love, some small part of him hoped that his dear friend’s grand romance would last.

 _Someone deserves to be happy,_ he thought, as he made his way back to his room. _And if anyone deserves it, it’s him._

He wasn’t over Cullen. He suspected he never would be – not entirely. Maker, he missed that man so deeply that just the thought of him still felt like a poisoned knife blade being thrust between his ribs.

But he’d been heartbroken like this once before. Since his nightmare, Dorian had allowed himself to properly grieve, and – although it had been painful and the wound still bloody and fresh – the healing process had begun. Perhaps someday that bloody wound on his heart would eventually scab over and continue to heal, leaving only an invisible scar. Until then, he would endure.

What other choice did he have?

Whatever lightness of mood he felt instantly disappeared when he came around the corner and saw the man waiting by his door.

Fenris.

The elf was sitting on the floor with his back to the wall. As Dorian’s footsteps echoed down the hall, Fenris turned his head towards the sound. Seeing Dorian, he pushed himself up to his feet with less grace than Dorian would have expected from him, suggesting that he’d probably had a bit too much to drink.

Ignoring him, Dorian stepped past him, then slipped the key to his room into the lock.

Fenris sagged against the wall. “Fine,” he said, as though continuing a conversation he’d been having in his head. “I will let you do it.”

Dorian blinked. He knew perfectly well that this wasn’t an offer of sex, but of course his mind immediately went there. Still, it threw him off-guard, and made reasoning difficult. His gaze slid over to Fenris’ face. Tone light, he asked, “Ah, could you be more specific about what, exactly, you wish me to do to you?”

Fenris met his gaze with eyes that seemed lucid enough, though there was a slight slur in his voice. “Restore my memories.”

 _Ah._ That explained the liquid courage, then. Dorian dropped all pretense and spoke plainly. “In that case, you ought to come in.”

Dorian shut the door behind them, dropping the key on the console table beside it as Fenris crept farther into the room. After quickly lighting a lamp with a magic flame, he then dropped down onto the small wooden chair nearby, watching as Fenris surveyed his surroundings.

Like most of the rooms of the Inner Circle in Skyhold, it was pitifully small and lacked windows, and therefore light. But, during his time here, Dorian had made his private space as decadent as possible. Thanks to Trevelyan, he’d acquired enough silk to adorn not only the single small window but also the bed, the bright swatches serving not only as coverlet but also as bed curtains, currently tied back with golden, tasseled rope. On every flat surface he’d amassed a rather fine collection of Trevelyan’s shiny things, including some rather pretty silver candlesticks, and gem-encrusted goblets that he was certain were pure gold. And everywhere there were mirrors, including one rather large one angled above the bed, just so.

As Fenris was distracted, Dorian took the opportunity to study him. There were traces of Leto. The same elegant hands, fingers long and clever. The same way he shifted his lean body, the unconscious jut of his slim hip. The same bright green eyes, green pools of cunning glimpsed through the now shocking white locks of his hair. The same tan skin visible between swirls of lyrium scars, skin that once had been velvety as the rose petals in his mother’s garden.

Funny how he could remember the feel of Leto’s skin so clearly. Dorian caught himself wondering if those scars were raised above his skin, if he would be able to tell the difference in the dark by touch alone. Wondered if they would tingle against his lips if he traced them with his tongue...

 _Dorian Pavus – stop,_ he chided himself. _He’s not that boy anymore. And Cullen –_

There it was – that familiar poisoned blade between the ribs feeling. He sucked in his breath.

Fenris turned sharply. “Your tastes,” he said. “They are very... _Tevinter.”_

He had practically spat out the last word. It was all very well and good for Dorian to make defamatory remarks about his homeland, but when other people did it... well, it was intolerable. “Really?” Dorian drawled. “And what you’re wearing isn’t?”

Fenris’ lips tightened. The armor Danarius had given him was light-weight but durable and strong, and it fit him right, like a second skin. In fact, he’d been wearing it for so long, he no longer thought about its origins.

He reminded himself that he hadn’t come here to fight. What he wanted was something else. His childhood, the memories of a mother who had loved him, his innocence – he wanted them _back._ And Dorian was the only one willing to help him.

And he knew that it was the only way he’d ever unravel the mystery of what this man had meant to him.

He exhaled slowly. “What do you need me to do?”

Dorian’s expression softened. “I’ll want to do a cursory examination first,” he decided. “Sit on the bed.”

Fenris glanced about. Other than the one chair – currently occupied by the mage – there was no where else to sit. Fenris took a few halting steps, then sank warily down so that he was sitting at the edge of Dorian’s bed.

A moment later, Dorian had pushed himself out of the chair, and was now standing before him, expression serious, all business. Hands arched gracefully through the air. Although Dorian didn’t actually touch him, Fenris could feel the man’s magic tingling against his scalp. He didn’t like it, but, strangely, it didn’t feel intrusive. He’d tensed up, and now he intuitively forced himself to relax.

Dorian, focused on his task, didn’t notice Fenris’ discomfort. Magic could always be _felt,_ and – if a mage were sensitive enough – he could even feel the residual effects. And the stronger the magic, the stronger the effects. Unfortunately, he could feel the lyrium under the elf’s skin, buzzing like static, clouding his magical vision. When he finally did stumble upon the damage, the revelation almost felt like a triumph.

_Maker, it’s so ridiculously simple._

He drew back his hands, looking thoughtful. “There’s a scar on your mind.”

“A scar?”

“Yes,” Dorian said. “I’d thought that perhaps the lyrium had perhaps affected your brain somehow during the ritual, but this is pure magic. It’s working like a seal. But I should have no trouble removing it.”

Eager, Dorian lifted his hands, ready to cast the requisite spell. But Fenris’ hands shot out to seize him by both wrists. With surprise, Dorian glanced down to note that Fenris was giving him the stink-eye.

Irate, Dorian snapped at him. “Do you want your bloody memories back or not?”

Fenris glared at him for another moment. Then with a grunt, he released Dorian’s wrists, letting his own hands settle quietly in his lap. “Fine,” he muttered. “Just... do it.”

 _Kaffas, this elf,_ Dorian mused. _All this talk of ‘doing it’..._ Sighing, he shook that ridiculous thought out of his head, then lifted his hands again. With a word softly spoken just under his breath, he cast the spell, in less time that it would have taken him to order a drink from his favorite teahouse in Minrathous.

Dorian hadn’t been _gentle_ in removing the seal. Instead – like an old bandage glued by time and dried blood into a wound – he _ripped_ it off. At least that’s how it felt to Fenris. There was a sudden hideous shock of pain, as if someone had just cracked his skull in two and buried a broadsword in his brain.

Just as suddenly as the excruciating pain struck, it was washed away by the rushing tide of memories that flooded back in. Images flashed before his eyes in succession, so rapidly that they began to overlap, one melting into the other before he could even begin to process any of it. Along with each image there was a surge of emotion – some familiar, some new and horrible.

Throat inexplicably locked, he couldn’t scream. Not did he hear Dorian’s voice. Every nerve inside him was screaming at him to flee, to hide. In a sudden flurry of limbs, Fenris automatically scrambled backwards until he crashed up against the wall behind him, as if he could somehow get away from the memories exploding inside him.

It was too much all at once. Odd, inhuman whimpers rattled out of his mouth as the lost memories and feelings continued to batter into him, each one with the force of a boulder being launched by an angry giant.

He could barely discern one memory from another at first. And then, like scum rising to the surface of a boiling lake, the strongest of his memories emerged, dominating all the rest, fresh and hot and painfully raw in their need to be acknowledged.

He remembered them.

_His mother. Her arms. The comforting soft swell of her bosom as she gathered him in, soothing childhood hurts. She smelled of plums and wildflowers._

_Danarius. His knives as they carved those esoteric patterns into his flesh, blade tips grinding the lyrium dust into his bloody flesh._

_A young man. Breath-stealing beauty, sweat-slicked skin glistening bronze in the Tevinter sun, gasping his name, hips rolling up to fulfill such desperate need._

_His first love._

_Dorian._

“Fenris...?”

Dorian’s voice finally registered in his brain, though he sounded as if he were standing halfway across Skyhold, and not halfway on the bed, leaning over him with a strange mix of concern and despair tightening his features and darkening his eyes.

_Dorian was that boy._

_The one he’d forgotten._

_The lover that he’d..._

Fenris remembered then. The _real_ boon he’d asked of Danarius in exchange for his markings.

This knowledge nearly unmade him.

_Oh, Maker, what have I done...?_

He felt a surge of bile. He managed to swallow the vomit back down before it choked his throat. Head spinning and heart racing, Fenris pushed Dorian out of his way as he scrambled off the bed. He barely knew what he was doing, only that he needed to _get out of this room_. Throwing himself across the room, his shaking hands practically clawed at the latch on the door.

“Leto, _please...”_

That plea, so fraught with pain. _That voice._

Fenris couldn’t bring himself to speak. To say the words that would ease Dorian’s pain. He couldn’t see anything beyond the vortex inside him that threatened to shatter his sanity and crush his heart into pulp.

Without looking at Dorian, Fenris flung open the door and fled into the dark.

 


	10. Memories

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tagged this story as "mature" but I think this chapter definitely wanders into "explicit" territory. But I'm sure you won't mind. ;) Thanks for reading!

Rainy season came to Qarinus.

Leto hated it. Rainy days meant being trapped in his master’s house instead of out working in the fields. Days in which Leto fulfilled other duties by aiding in the tasks of the household staff, but many of his hours of the long gray afternoons were passed staring at the tall, rain-streaked windows, longing to be in the sun-drenched fields.

Longing for _him._

Leto knew better. He knew his place. It had not always been so, but he had been a slave for almost as long as he could remember, and Dorian was the son of a powerful magister of another House. Both of them trapped by the roles to which society had assigned them. Except when the two of them were together, Leto, briefly, could forget his unfortunate fate as a slave, just as Dorian could forget his equally oppressive birthright as the son of the noble elite _._

Leto told his mother everything. Except about Dorian’s status as an _altus._ That he kept secret, knowing it would only alarm her. Instead, he’d let her think that the boy of his clandestine meetings was merely a servant of the Pavus house, a slave like himself. Even his sister Varania – his best friend all his life – had no idea of the real identity of his lover.

As the rain continued to endlessly fall, he polished the silverware. He cleaned the brass. He dusted and swept. Always thinking of Dorian.

The rains finally ceased on Summerday.

The staff had been busy for days. In the Herathinous house, as in most others in Tevinter, the slaves were traditionally given the afternoon of the holiday off to celebrate. And, as in most houses, it was commonplace for elvhen couples of the same house to marry. This year, there were two such young couples who had decided to wed. And, as a wedding was a joyous community event, all the elves of the house had been whipped up into a frenzy of preparatory activity. Wedding clothing had been sewn, cakes and sweetmeats baked, and flowers freshly gathered from the gardens.

Because he was idle and had clever hands, Leto was conscripted into the weaving of the flower crowns. As he wove, he continued to watch distractedly out the window as the heavy clouds began to dissipate, creating cracks in the sky where beams of bright sunlight peeked through to strike the wet ground, drying the grass and causing steam to rise and mist the air. His heart half-full of hope, he continued to study the clouds, wondering.

_Will he come?_

Leto couldn’t have explained his feelings about Dorian, had anyone asked. All he knew was that, despite all good sense, he couldn’t stay away from the bronze-skinned boy, drawn to him as if he were the influencing moon, and Leto were the mutable tides of the sea.

_Will he come?_

Late morning, the cloud cover split, bathing the estate in strong light. A good omen for a wedding. Dressed in their finery and flower crowns, the elves gathered in the gardens to witness the ceremony, performed by one of the elders. Although the ceremony was simple, and the officiant’s speech short, there was hardly a dry eye among the audience, deeply moved by the optimistic eloquence of her words. Next, the elder wound the traditional ribbons of scarlet about each husband’s wrist, symbolically joining each groom to his bride. United by their fasted hands and having spoken the traditional oaths, the blissful couples kissed in the light of the midday sun.

In Tevinter, it was forbidden for two men to marry. And yet, in his mind’s eye, he could picture Dorian as his groom, his head crowned with white flowers, their hands clasped and wrists bound as they made their vows.

The ceremony complete, the wedding party made their way to the back of the gardens. There, tables had been laid out with fresh linens and more flowers, and a number of chairs scattered about. Once the grooms and brides had taken their places at the head of the largest table, the kitchen elves began to bring out pitchers of drink and platters of food, while a trio of elves picked up some musical instruments and began to play a lively jig.

All around him, the aroma of the feast – the savory scent of roasted meat, of sweet potatoes coated in brown sugar, of sweet cream cakes and bread still hot from the ovens. But Leto was not tempted. Above him, in the sky, the sun burned strong, beckoning to him the way the siren calls the sailor.

_Will he come?_

As the elves mingled, Leto caught Varania’s sleeve. Leaning towards her, he spoke softly near her ear. “I have to go.”

Varania looked at him with surprise. For a moment, he could tell that she was about to protest his leaving the Summerday celebration before it had even begun, but then her expression shifted, complicit.

She nodded once, carefully. “If mother asks, I’ll tell her you weren’t feeling well,” she said, then dropped her voice to a bare whisper. “Go to him.”

Leto needed no more encouragement. He gave his sister’s arm a gentle squeeze of gratitude before he turned to slip away. Through the crowds, out past the gardens, he then made his way through the fields, down towards their usual meeting place by the creek.

Leto never knew when he might find Dorian. Some days his duties kept him away, and other days Dorian’s studies got in the way. Sometimes it would be days or even weeks before both of them were able to manage sneaking away from their respective masters, or in Dorian’s case, his family and tutors. Swinging the wine bottle he’d surreptitiously swiped from one of the banquet tables, Leto made his way down the path, already overgrown with wet grasses, and into the glade.

His heart lifted, a hot, thumping balloon trapped in his bones, when he spotted Dorian perched upon the rock like a prince on a throne. As he rustled his way down the path, Dorian craned his neck, and then smiled at him. “About time you got here,” he complained mildly. “I’ve been waiting forever.”

If there was anything that Dorian _didn’t_ complain about, Leto couldn’t say what it was. He raised the bottle in greeting. “Happy Summerday.”

At that, Dorian cocked an eyebrow, regarding the bottle with interest. “I hope you brought something good this time.”

Leto lifted the bottle higher so that Dorian could see it. “Dandelion wine. Elvhen made. It’s the tradition to drink it on Summerday.”

Curious, Dorian slid down from his perch, then took a step forward. Reaching for the unlabeled green bottle, he examined it critically for a moment. “Interesting,” he murmured. “But it’s cold here. I suggest we find a warmer place to partake of it.”

Leto readily agreed. Not because he was cold – in fact, after his long walk through the fields, the glade was refreshingly cool – but because it was difficult to say no to Dorian. “We could go to the orchards,” he suggested.

Dorian paused, looking thoughtful, as though he were trying the idea on in his mind. Then he slipped a slender hand into one of the pockets of his robe for his dwarven knife, then used it to pry the cork free from the bottle. He took a suspicious sniff, then a cautious sip. With amusement, Leto watched as Dorian’s face lit up with pleasure.

“Well, Pavus?” Leto prompted.

A few drops of the wine had dribbled from his lips. Dorian wiped his chin with the back of his hand. “It’s not bad,” he admitted, then passed the bottle back. Grinning, he then reached out to snatch Leto’s flower crown, and plunked it down upon his own head, the white flowers contrasting prettily with his raven-dark hair. “Now – come on. We’ll drink it while we walk.”

As they walked the crooked path towards the Pavus estate, they chatted. Or rather Dorian talked, filling Leto in on all the latest gossip he had heard, the party his parents had forced him to attend, and the progression of his mostly-dull studies. Living the life of a slave, every day was the same, and Leto had little news to share. Still – although he never would have admitted it aloud to Dorian, who truly did talk too much – he liked listening to his voice. Lyrical and rich, his words seemed to dance gracefully in Leto’s pointed ears.

They were halfway to the orchards, slogging through the fields of the Pavus estate, when Dorian came to a sudden stop, then, fidgeting with the front of his robes, he blurted out, “I found a book.”

Leto, who had been taking a swig from the bottle, now lowered it as he swallowed. “A book?” he asked. “What sort of book?”

Fabric twisted in Dorian’s hand. Leto wondered if Dorian was even aware that he was doing it. And he’d never looked so awkward. For a brief second, Leto automatically expected the worst, and his body tensed.

“I...” Dorian began, uncharacteristically faltering. “Well... sort of a manual,” he said. “A... ah... manual about manly love.”

“A manual about manly love,” Leto echoed, not quite getting it.

A muscle in Dorian’s jaw flinched. “Yes,” he said, with a hint of exasperation. “One that described how we could be together.”

Still not quite getting it, Leto fretted. “I thought we _were_ together.”

Dorian heaved a sigh. “Flames!” he swore. “Must I really spell it out?” When Leto just stared at him blankly, he sighed again. “I’m talking about _sex._ As in penetration. As in you and me.”

Leto’s heart skipped a beat. The two of them had done many pleasurable things to each other with their hands and even their mouths, but they hadn’t progressed to going all the way. “So... you’re saying you want...”

Dorian’s lips tightened as Leto trailed off, waiting for Dorian to confirm his unspoken thought. Taking a deep breath, he filled in the blank. “I’m saying... well, I’m saying that I want you to fuck me.”

Leto blinked. Heart stopped. The wine bottle slipped from his numb fingers, and dropped to the ground. Ignored, the dandelion wine softly gurgled into the mud. For a moment, his mind reeled with a hundred thousand thoughts. Then he finally realized that Dorian, his face flushed with a hint of rose, was anxiously and impatiently waiting for his answer.

Leto tripped over his own tongue. “Are you... are you sure?”

Dorian straightened, as if rising to a challenge. “I’ve done my research,” he said quickly. “If we set about it properly, it... well, it shouldn’t hurt.”

At a loss for words, Leto merely echoed, “Properly?”

Dorian cleared his throat. Then he reached into one of the pockets of his robes to withdraw a small vial of what looked like a golden viscous liquid that seemed to shimmer as he turned it in the light. “We’ll need this. To, ah... facilitate things. And you’ll need to...”

Leto felt his face growing hotter as he listened to Dorian, which was odd, because most of his blood had traveled _south,_ just at the thought of doing the things that Dorian was describing. This despite the clinical, almost impersonal nature of Dorian’s descriptions, which made Leto wonder just what _sort_ of book it was that Dorian had found. A dirty book wouldn’t have sounded so medical, and a medical book wouldn’t have been so detailed.

Finished, Dorian could barely meet Leto’s eyes, instead, hovering somewhere at the line of Leto’s beardless chin. A moment dripped by, then another. “Well?” Dorian finally said. “Are you interested? Because if not, we can forget that I ever –”

The words suddenly died on Dorian’s lips as Leto pounced.

He ached for Dorian. Longed to do every single thing Dorian had said. Here, now. Hands curling into fabric, Leto tugged Dorian closer to him. One hand tilted up Dorian’s chin as he leaned in to press a kiss upon Dorian’s lips. Languidly, deliciously, he tasted of Dorian’s mouth, both bitter like coffee and sweet like sugared dates. Kissing him, he breathed in deep the now familiar scent of Dorian’s skin, easily detectable even beneath his unguents and perfumed oils and the floral scent from the crown of flowers upon his head.

_Like citrus peels and caramelized copper._

Every time they were apart, Leto imagined just kissing Dorian for hours. Yet, once they started, they were always too eager to wait. Within moments, fingers were fiddling with buttons, spreading open shirts and pushing down pants before tossing everything aside. Naked, Dorian reached up to remove the flower crown, but Leto’s hands stopped him.

“Leave it on.”

Dorian regarded him with a hint of surprise, but dropped his hands.

So close, they breathed in each others’ quickening breath as groping fingers wandered down between legs. Touching each other, they sank down to the ground. The mud was cold against his knees, but Dorian’s sigh was hot against his ear. Leto guided Dorian’s quivering body down, hovering above him before kissing a trail from his lips, down his chest, ghosting over his belly.

Tongue on cock, hard and silky. Dorian threw his head back with a moan, digging fingers into the mud. He then reached for Leto with sullied hands. Streaks of cold mud in Leto’s hair, across his shoulder. Pulling back, Leto caught Dorian by the wrists, then pinned his arms down. From his vantage point above the magister son’s naked body, he looked deeply down into Dorian’s half-closed eyes before bending his head again.

_Hands pinned down in the mud, skin like velvet, crown of princely flowers, eyes like melted silver in the midday sun._

Jerk of hips. A soft moan of pleasure. “Rilienus... Leto... _please.”_

Man was made to rut. Leto wanted nothing more than to be inside Dorian, to join their bodies together in that ultimate act of intimacy. Drawing back again, one hand scrabbled for the fallen vial of oil. His muddied fingers shaking so much that he fumbled with the lid, then nearly spilled the contents over his hand and Dorian’s thighs.

Across Dorian’s face jagged a thin streak of mud like unfinished Mabari warpaint.

His own member ached, it throbbed. On his knees, Leto spread Dorian’s legs apart. Seeking with a finger, he watched Dorian’s eyes widen as he circled the mage’s entrance. Then widen again as he pressed the finger in.

He knew what he was seeking. In his rare alone time, he’d experimented upon himself, and had found his own center of pleasure buried within himself. Slowly working his finger in, he swirled it around until he found Dorian’s spot.

Dorian jolted in surprise, unable to bite back a bark of pleasure. Eyes large as dinner plates, he stared up at Leto. “Flames, what did you just – _uh!”_

Leto continued to stroke that spot until Dorian writhed below him, unanswered pleas falling from his lips.

One finger, then two. Gliding easily now, as Dorian’s body relaxed enough to accommodate him. The ache he felt was nearly unbearable now. His whole body yearned for it, his desire all-consuming.

_He is the moon, and I am the tides of the sea._

“Please...” Dorian panted. “Please... I _need_ you...”

Leto waited no longer. His own cock generously oiled, he thrust Dorian’s legs open wider, then placed himself in position before slowly easing in.

Dorian’s catch of breath as Leto began to press against him. Then another as the initial resistance gave way and the tip of Leto’s cock popped in.

_Maker, I’m actually fucking him,_ Leto thought. It took all his willpower to just ease in carefully and not to mindlessly thrust like an animal. “Are you... okay?”

Dorian grimaced slightly. “Yes... fine. Just... go slow.”

Leto moved in and out of him slowly at first. But then, unable to hold back any longer, he quickened his pace. He could recall nothing that had ever felt this _good._ Dorian’s legs about his waist, hands clawing the earth, making small, almost whimpery little noises each time Leto thrust into him.

The fallen flower crown lay behind them, petals crushed into the mud.

He was in. All the way in. Dorian’s body hot and tight all around him. He’d never felt as close to anyone in his entire life as he did to Dorian in this moment.

_Dorian, my darling, my love._

They were together. Together as one.

_You are mine._

_And I am yours._

***

Night settled around Skyhold like a cold, wet quilt, causing its denizens to huddle deep, shivering in their cloaks.

Hearth fires blazing, it was warm inside the Herald’s Rest. At the bar, Fenris tugged open the collar of the tunic he wore, revealing more of his lyrium scars. There was no hiding them, so he’d given up trying long ago.

He didn’t have to wait long before the bartender – a scarred, older dwarven man – appeared. Whipping out a worn rag, he wiped down the space before Fenris, then asked, “What’ll it be?”

_Aggregio Pavali. Like summertime on the tongue._ The wine had once somehow reminded him of happier times that he couldn’t remember.

Except now he remembered.

Even if the tavern had stocked it, the cost would have been more than he could afford. Although the Inquisition had promised him a stipend for his help, he hadn’t actually been paid yet. Which, apparently, was the case with most of the Inquisition’s servants.

At any rate, given his mood, wine would not get him drunk quick enough.

Tugging off his gloves, Fenris stuffed them away in a pocket of his cloak. “Strongest drink you’ve got, Cabot.”

“That would be the _Maraas-Lok,”_ the bartender said. “Qunari stuff. Acquisitioned for the Iron Bull. Nobody else orders it, though. In Qunlat it means –”

“Drink,” Fenris filled in. “Yes, that will do.”

Cabot lifted an eyebrow slightly in surprise. Clearly he had not expected an elf to speak Qunlat. But instead of remarking upon it, he merely reached under the bar for an almost comically large bottle and a tankard, which he then filled.

As Cabot slid the requested drink before him, Fenris asked, “Any rumors?”

“Someone requested a dragon flagon,” Cabot revealed. “I threw him out.”

After a quick glance at the empty corner where the Chargers usually sat, Fenris thought, _Well, that explains why the Iron Bull isn’t here._

As Cabot drifted away, Fenris lifted the tankard to his lips and took a carelessly large swig. He’d forgotten how much of a kick _Maraas-Lok_ possessed.Immediately there was an explosion of heat in his throat and chest and he started to sputter and cough.

Nothing to do but follow it with another large swallow. This one, at least, went down easier than the first.

He was halfway through the first tankard when the door was thrown open. As if Fenris’ back was the target, a cold breeze blew straight up his spine. As he softly cursed, he glanced over his shoulder to glare at the perpetrator, uncertain if he were relieved or dismayed to see Varric Tethras in the threshold.

Varric quickly shoved the door shut. Scanning the room, his gaze fell upon Fenris at the bar. After raising a hand in greeting, he then made his way over to the bar, taking the vacant seat next to the elf’s.

Varric ordered “the usual” before taking a long, assessing look at his friend. Fenris couldn’t help but to notice the drawing of the dwarf’s brows and the sincere look of concern. “You’re brooding again,” Varric said. “Not that this surprises me, but I do wonder if something’s happened.”

Fenris bit back a bitter laugh. _Something_ had happened all right. Ever since he’d fled from Dorian’s room, he’d been trying to sort out the memories in his head, trying to make sense of it. In the end, he’d decided to come to the tavern, to drink and try to forget.

_Maker, Danarius’ boon – he’d fucking_ asked _for it._

He briefly considered telling Varric to _fuck off_ so he could be alone. But his thoughts were a burden that he could scarcely bear. And the way Varric was looking at him – with almost parental worry – he found he just couldn’t.

His hands shook, his voice a thin quiver. “I remember now.”

A hint of alarm flashed through Varric’s eyes. “You remember what, Broody?”

This time, Fenris didn’t manage to hold back a laugh – bitter and broken. “Everything,” he said. “Everything that Danarius made me forget. I remember my childhood in Seheron – the hot, humid nights, and the jungle beasts.” Fenris drew a breath, but now that he’d started talking, he was unable to stop the memories from pouring out. “I remember my mother – how she would gather me in her arms. She smelled like plums and wildflowers.” He drew another breath. “And my sister, too – how we would play together in the courtyard while my mother worked.” A breath. “I remember my master before Danarius. He was not... unkind. My sister worked in the kitchens. I worked in the fields. There was a boy... the boy next door. We fell in love. We were hap–”

On that word, Fenris’ voice cracked.

Varric remained silent. With all his patience, waiting.

Fenris steadied his hands by wrapping them tightly around his tankard, squeezing it so hard that his knuckles started to lose their color. “One night... he came to me. In the slave quarters. But we were caught. Before they dragged him away, he promised that he would come back for me –” Fenris choked back a sob “– but he never came.”

With pained sympathy, Varric reached out to lightly pat Fenris’ forearm, and spoke softly. “Maybe he wanted to, but he couldn’t.”

Fenris shook his head. But it wasn’t a denial. More of an attempt to fight back the tears that threatened to spill. “I was sold the next day. To _Danarius._ ” Grim, Fenris gritted his teeth as the ancient rage blossomed in his chest. “I felt like I’d been betrayed. I...” Fenris paused, squeezing his eyes shut as the memory battered against his brain. When he opened his eyes again, his voice was low and thin as a reed, barely more than a whisper. “I begged him to let me compete for these markings. Because I wanted the boon.”

The alarm had returned to Varric’s kind eyes. “Broody...?”

Fenris leaned closer, almost hissing in Varric’s face. “The ritual didn’t cause me to lose my memories. No. I couldn’t bear it – the pain of losing _him_ was too great.” Fenris drew a deep breath before making his confession. “The boon I asked for was not to free my mother and sister from slavery,” he said in a haunted whisper. “No, the boon was that _I asked Danarius to make me forget.”_

Silence fell between them. The pain and anguish in the air was palpable. Varric wished he could spool it up somehow and free his friend from it. And yet – he already had a sinking suspicion. “And what actually happened to this boy, Broody?”

Fingers tightened around the tankard. Eyes nearly dead as his mouth moved to form the impossible. “That boy... is _Dorian.”_

Despite his suspicions, Varric still felt a jolt of surprise. “Well,” he murmured, though not unkindly. “That _is_ quite the plot twist.”

A lock of white hair slipped down to obscure his eyes as Fenris stared down for a moment into his tankard. Lifting his gaze, he narrowed his eyes at Varric. “You will _not_ be putting this into your next book.”

Varric raised both hands defensively. “Now, now, Broody. Even if I were to write a book about our illustrious adventures in the Inquisition, not everything is suitable for inclusion.” _Such as what happened with Cassandra at the Winter Palace,_ he thought. “But,” he continued, “I think the more important question is: Now that you know, what are you going to do about it?”

Grim again, Fenris stared down into his tankard. But this time, he did not lift his eyes to meet Varric’s gaze. “I don’t know.”

Varric thought about what he knew about the mage from Tevinter. Certainly flashy, but not a bad guy, even if he often came off as arrogant – _not unlike a certain Garrett Hawke._ “And do you know how Dorian feels about all this?”

Fenris slowly shook his head. A very small voice in the back of his head whispered at him: _Liar._ He ignored it. “All I know is that I don’t want to think about this anymore. And that I need another drink.”

Varric lifted a hand to flag down the bartender. “You know what I think? I think it would do you some good to get out of Skyhold. You know, _do_ something.” When Fenris looked at him with guarded interest, he added, “Bull and the Inquisitor have some business with the Qunari and some red lyrium smugglers to deal with. An elf that speaks Qunlat could be a valuable asset. We leave tomorrow. Come with us to the Storm Coast, Broody.”

***

Mostly drunk after another round or three with Varric, Fenris staggered out of the tavern and made his way back to his room.

It was the same room he’d shared with Hawke. After what had happened in Adamant, they’d let him keep it, despite the lack of habitable space in Skyhold and the fact that the room was big enough for more than one inhabitant. Due to sympathy, he imagined, rather than from an oversight. Except that the result had been anything but sympathetic, as he’d still been able to feel Hawke’s presence. It lingered, haunting him like a ghost.

Tonight, however, Hawke was the furthest thing from his thoughts.

Fleeing from Danarius, he’d arrived in Kirkwall without the memories of his youth. Before Hawke, he’d never remembered – never known what it felt like to be loved. All he’d known was the bittersweet cruelty of Danarius’ hand upon his heart, mind and flesh. He’d been less than a man, nothing more than a pretty plaything, a possession.

With that flood of memories, the truth cut deep. He’d been loved, and profoundly. His mother, saintly as Andraste, sacrificing everything to keep him alive and safe. His sister, before time and circumstance had warped her ambitions, causing her to betray him. And Dorian...

_It isn’t fair it isn’t fair it isn’t–!_

His hand fell on one of the empty wine bottle by the bed. With a roar he hurled it. Against the wall it shattered, scattering broken glass and droplets of wine red as blood. After this impulsive pique of rage, for a moment, a brief second only, he almost felt like himself again.

He caught a glimpse of his reflection in the mirror in the corner of the room. In the dim, his markings glowed bright as torch light. Stepping towards the mirror, he ignored the pain of the sharp-edged glass below his feet, and stared long and hard at himself.

The power of the lyrium carved into his skin had made him strong. But now that his entire world had been upturned and was crashing down inside his head, he felt anything but. Just as suddenly as his rage had bloomed, it drained away, leaving nothing but exhaustion and sorrow in its wake. His head was a crowd of ghosts, and his heart felt like a rag that had been run too many times through a wringer until it was merely a threadbare scrap.

He couldn’t stop himself from reliving his newly-returned memories. Without time to erode them, each one was vivid and forge-hot, as though it had happened yesterday. Fraught with intense need and emotion, they churned and twirled inside him like leaves caught up in a tempest.

_Pleased to meet you, Rilienus. Want an apple?_

That velvet voice. No wonder Dorian had felt so familiar to him.

That boy had been his everything.

_I promise I’ll come back for you. I will always come back for you._

And the loss of that happiness had nearly torn him apart.

Fenris reached out towards his reflection, stroking the cold glass. With razor-sharp clarity he could recall every detail of those days in the sunlit fields, in the shadowed stables, in the fragrant orchards, in the cool, tree-thick glade by the creek. He recalled the tart crispness of the Pavus apples between his teeth, the sticky sweetness of the honeycomb, and the rich woodsy flavor of stolen wine, intoxicating him.

The heady feeling of falling in love.

Being touched without pain.

Dorian’s hands on him. His hot mouth, sweet as candied dates. His bronze cock, hard and quivering, creating a perfect arc from his body. Dorian, pinned down in the mud, eager to be fucked. Dorian fucking him.

A shudder coursed through Fenris’ body. If someone had told him yesterday that there was a time when he would have begged his lover to fuck him, he would have believed it impossible. And yet, now, he remembered every detail of one of their last sexual encounters. The dewy coolness of the grass beneath his hands and knees in the encroaching dusk. The new and somewhat intrusive feel of Dorian’s fingers carefully exploring him. The scent of the oil he’d used, like lavender and honeysuckle. The strange but delicious pressure of Dorian’s cock as he slowly nudged his way in, and the sudden shock of pleasure as their bodies rocked together. The way he’d loved every second of it and had cried out for _more, more, more._

At the memory, he felt an uncharacteristic twinge of arousal, his cock hot and heavy as it crooked up against the fabric of his pants.

Once they’d started having sex, they’d been unable to keep their hands off each other. He’d been enthralled with everything that Dorian had done to him. And had never, before or after, had feelings like this.

Insistently tenting his trousers now, his erection demanded attention. More than half-drunk and without much thought, Fenris snaked a hand down the front of his pants, taking himself in hand. As he did so, a soft moan involuntarily escaped him.

He let the memories play across the screen of his mind. As if he were back in Qarinus, he could feel Dorian’s touch.

_Smell of hay and of horse in the dust-speckled light._ _Wet heat of his mouth, teasing with tongue at the tip, swirling, sucking, bronze hands with fingers splayed across his hips, tracing the jutting bones, holding him fast..._

Stroking himself with one hand, the other scrambled to join the first. Fingers furiously jerked at the laces of his pants. Continuing to touch himself, he clumsily tugged down his pants, watching as his reflection did the same. In the dim light, his eyes seemed to flash like jewels, glowing like a cat’s.

His member freed, he continued to palm it, then wrapped his long fingers around it. For a moment he stared at the wanton expression on the mirror Fenris’ face, then dropped his eyes to watch his cock moving in and out of his fist. The sight of himself, half-naked and hard, touching himself, only fueled his arousal.

_Bright shiny apples in the moonlight, rough scratch of grooved bark against his skin. Arms wrapped around the tree, fingers digging into the knotted trunk. The cool of the night air against his exposed flanks. Dorian’s voice in his ear all hot velvety breath, dirty promises and murmured words of endearment. The heat of Dorian’s greased fingers penetrating him, slowly sliding in and out of his body, spreading him open, searching and finding his pleasure, and fulfilling such desperate desire..._

Stroking faster, he lifted his free hand to his mouth, then bit down on his palm to stifle his own cries. He had denied himself this release for so long, and the tension had built. Yet, despite being so close, he was still so drunk, and just touching himself wasn’t enough. Dropping roughly to his knees, he stretched out a hand towards the night table. Drunken fingers fell first upon the tin of greasy balm. Scooping out a generous amount, he then reached behind himself to apply it.

_Back against the weathered wood. Arms flung about Dorian’s neck, holding on for dear life. Unexpected strength in those thin boy’s arms, lifting him up, making Fenris ride his cock. Eyes like mercury in the shadows, Dorian’s hot breath against his face, teeth clamping down into his shoulder. Rattle of the barn door as Dorian thrusts deeper into him, soft, needy pleas into Dorian’s hair. His own cock caught between them, rubbing against the hard planes of Dorian’s belly, bringing him to his peak..._

His hand shot out again, searching for something – _anything!_ – to fill his desperate need. By chance his fingers fumbled across one of the empty wine bottles. Although thin-necked, it would have to do. Still touching himself with one hand, he spread his knees wider on the carpet, then angled the bottle beneath him. Sucking in his breath, he pushed the neck of the bottle inside himself, and a word like a sigh slipped from his lips.

_Dorian..._

 


	11. Storm Coast

The Storm Coast was miserable.

Everything was wet. The sun had risen, evaporating the morning fog, with the result that the air was thick with steam. A light drizzle continued to fall. Dorian could feel the most unpleasant sensation of dampness under his clothes. He was certain that he’d be wringing the sweat out of his small clothes later. And only the Maker knew what the humidity was doing to his hair.

With one hand on his staff, he needed the other to push back the overgrown foliage that had encroached the path. Thus it wasn’t long before the bottoms of his robes were dragging through the mud. At least when he wasn’t tripping over the thick tree roots hidden in the knee-high grasses.

Dorian hated nature even at the best of times, but traipsing through the jungle? It was almost as terrible as the Hissing Wastes. As he struggled up the muddy, rocky path, he regretted his decision to come. He could have been tucked in his warm niche in the library with a good book and a cup of tea, but no. When Trevelyan had said that he was only bringing a small contingent to the Storm Coast, and that he needed Dorian, Dorian had been quite unable to refuse.

Up ahead, Bull turned his head, his gaze falling upon Dorian. “How’s it going, ‘Vint?”

Dorian drew a deep breath. “Finally,” he drawled, “some humidity.”

Bull snorted a light laugh. “Damp just gets in everywhere, doesn’t it?” he said. “Yeah, gotta be fun getting a camp fire started in this.”

From the back of the line, Krem piped up. “Yeah, Chief. As if you’d ever stoop to doing menial work,” he teased. “Been so long – do you even remember _how_ to start a fire?”

Bull grinned back at his lieutenant. “Last fire I started wasn’t in the rain. It was in some lady’s underpants.”

Varric huffed as he struggled to keep up. “Hate to break it to you, Tiny, but that wasn’t no _lady.”_

As Bull laughed again, Dorian cast a quick glance behind him. Pulling up the rear with the Chargers was Fenris. He’d been silent for most of the trip. He met Dorian’s eyes only briefly before looking away.

They still hadn’t spoken since the night Dorian had removed Danarius’ seal. _He must remember me... what we shared..._ except Dorian didn’t know what Fenris was thinking, as the elf had been actively avoiding him, first at Skyhold, and now for the entire time they’d been on the road.

As they crested the hill, the sea came into view. Beyond the edge of the trees it stretched far to the horizon, a green glassy sheen of rippling water. Dorian recalled the awful time he’d had the last time he’d crossed the Waking Sea. Caught up in a storm, the ship had reeled back and forth as the waves crashed repeatedly into the hull. He’d never been so sick in his life, and he’d sworn off all sea travel since then.

“The Waking Sea,” Varric said, with a hint of nostalgia in his tone. “Somewhere across all that water is Kirkwall.”

Dorian glanced at Fenris again. The elf was staring out over the water. Dorian wondered. _Does he miss Kirkwall?_ And: _Is the loss of Hawke a scar that is healing, or is it still a raw, open wound?_ But Fenris was still wearing that guarded expression that belied no emotion, so he couldn’t tell.

As the rain continued to fall, Bull stopped, looking about as he sniffed the air. “This is the place,” he told the Inquisitor. “Our Qunari contact should be here to meet us.”

From his hiding place, an elf in light armor stepped out, a grin spreading across his face. “He is,” the elf said. “Good to see you again, Hissrad.”

“Gatt!” Iron Bull threw up his own hands in greeting. “Last I heard, you were still in Seheron.”

Hanging back with the others, Dorian watched and listened as Bull introduced his colleague to Trevelyan. Dorian, still wet and miserable, was glad when the niceties were cut short, and the three men got down to business.

“Hopefully, this will help both our peoples,” Gatt said. “Tevinter is dangerous enough without the influence of this Venatori cult. If this new form of lyrium helps them seize power in Tevinter, the war with Qunandar could get worse.”

Dorian softly snorted to himself. Talking about his homeland as if he weren’t even here? He should have been accustomed to that by now; still it rankled. Naturally, he was just as anti-Venatori as the rest of them. If not more. He’d known men like that back in Minrathous, ones who would do anything for power. They had to be stopped. Which is why he’d reluctantly agreed with the Inquisitor when he’d proposed an alliance with the Qunari.

“With this stuff,” Bull said, “the ‘Vints could make their slaves into an army of magical freaks.”

At the mention of slavery, Dorian cast another glance at Fenris. All wrapped up in his black leathers with his sword at his back, spine stretched, he appeared ready to attack if need be. As he was closely watching the exchange, there was no catching his eye, though Dorian did notice a slight change in his expression. Eyes narrowed, and a crease in his brow. Dorian didn’t know what it signified.

_Anger? Pain? A deep-seated need for revenge?_

“We’ll need to eliminate the Venatori, then signal the Dreadnaught so it can come in and take out the smuggler ship,” Gatt explained. “My agents suggested two possible locations the Venatori may be camped to guard the shore. There,” he pointed down the opposite side of the crest, “and there.” He pointed down towards the shore. “We’ll need to split up to hit both at once.”

Bull nodded. “I’ll come with you, Boss. Krem can lead the Chargers.”

***

_How many people have we murdered so far in the name of the Inquisition?_

Gatt’s intel had been good. They’d found the Venatori camp easily enough, right where his agents had predicted. Moving quietly through the thick vegetation, they’d even had the element of surprise.

_The last thing they probably expected,_ Dorian mused, as he, Trevelyan and Varric held back at a safe distance, firing spells and arrows, while Fenris and Bull rushed forward to attack, swinging their weapons as the roared their battle cries. _It’s not every day you get surprise attacked by a white-haired elf and a one-eyed Qunari._

The battle was ridiculously easy, and over before it had barely even begun.

Trevelyan lowered his staff, then bounced up on his toes, his gaze scanning the campsite. “Is everyone all right?”

“Everyone but the Venatori, I’d say,” Varric remarked as he slung his crossbow back over his shoulder, but not without first giving it an affectionate pat. “Right, Bianca?”

“Yeah, Boss,” Bull said as he and Fenris jogged back over. “We’re good.”

Both of them had escaped the battle unscathed. No gore, except for the blood on the edges of their blades, and no rips in Fenris’ tight black leathers. As the relief flooded through Dorian’s body, Fenris’ gaze snapped up to meet his.

For a moment, Fenris’ gaze met his, and his expression shifted.

In it, was... _something._

It was also short-lived, because at that moment, Bull shouted an “All clear!” and Gatt reappeared. As the Qunari agent made his way to the fire at the edge of the camp, Dorian and the others trailed after him. As Gatt signaled the Dreadnaught, Dorian gazed down at the beach below. Standing on a high bank near the water, he could just make out five figures – the Chargers. At their feet, dark figures which he took to be dead Venatori mages.

_It’s true what they say – victory is sweet._

Out on the water, the signaled Dreadnaught appeared. In the mist that had risen over the sea, it was hard to make out details, but the ship was long and low over the water. With a crack, two flaming cannonballs were launched from the Dreadnaught, each of them striking the tall, narrow smugglers’ ship, and causing it rock dangerously, nearly capsizing in the water beneath the force of the second blow.

Bull emitted a hearty laugh. “Nice one,” he murmured. Then, movement on the beach below caught his eye. Immediately the smile slipped from his lips, as his brow furrowed. “Crap.”

Dorian followed Bull’s line of sight. Six figures in dark robes were approaching the bank – more Venatori mages. The Chargers had seen them, too, and had drawn weapons. Taking a stance, their swords flashed, thin stripes of reflected sunlight.

As good as the Chargers were, they were no match for six mages.

Trevelyan echoed Dorian’s thought before he could speak it. “The Chargers can’t stand against that kind of force.”

Grim, Bull stared at the Inquisitor for a moment. “No, they can’t.”

Gatt strode forward. Voice hard as silverite as he fixed Bull in an uncompromising stare. “Your men need to hold that position, Bull.”

Bull’s head whipped around, his one eye narrowed. “They do that, they’re dead.”

Gatt and Bull began to argue. If the Chargers retreated, the mages would be free to attack the Dreadnaught, and everyone upon it dead. With the result that there would be no alliance between the Qunari and the Inquisition. And not only that, Bull would become Tal-Vashoth – which, Dorian gathered by context, meant that Bull would be exiled from his own people. An enemy.

And yet he didn’t want to sacrifice his men.

As the argument began to spiral around itself, Varric, who had been following the approach of the mages on the beach below, now cleared his throat. “Inquisitor? If you’re going to make a decision, _now_ would be a good time to do it.”

All eyes turned to Trevelyan.

His eyes were wide, giving him the appearance of a frightened animal. Hands fluttered about his shapeless robes and he fretted, chewing nervously on his bottom lip. Then he drew a deep breath as he turned to Bull, meeting his gaze squarely, and when he spoke, his voice was authoritative and surprisingly steady.

“We need to hold that hill at all costs.”

Dorian had never expected to see weakness in the Iron Bull. No, the big lug was a massive wall of strength, and showing _feelings_ wasn’t really a part of who he was. Except now, at Trevelyan’s words, the man seemed to somehow break apart, as if he were a wall of glass that the Inquisitor had just shattered with one mighty blow.

Utterly defeated, Bull could only mumble a weary, “Yeah.”

Dorian could scarcely believe that this was happening. Too shocked to react, he could only stare, his breath caught in his throat. Beside him, Varric seemed equally stunned by Trevelyan’s decision.

Fenris, on the other hand, surged forward. He was practically spitting into the Inquisitor’s face. “No!” Fenris growled. “Inquisitor, you can’t let them die!”

His hands shook, but Trevelyan stood his ground. “I’m sorry,” he said in a hoarse whisper, his eyes clouded by all the pain in the world. “I know Krem is your friend.”

Fenris sucked in a sharp breath.

Shaky fingers found Fenris’ shoulder, then squeezed hard as if Trevelyan were trying to comfort him. Or, perhaps, to ground himself. “Please try to understand,” he whispered, as tears began to spill out from his eyes, _“the alliance is too important.”_

Fenris opened his mouth, but no words came out.

From below, the sounds of battle began.

***  
The Venatori mages didn’t hold back.

The first spell shook the earth. As if one of Rocky’s bombs had been detonated, rock and dirt, tree roots and grass shot up in the air. Krem lost his footing, then all his breath rushed out of him as the ground rushed up to meet him. Pain seared his leg, and his seeking fingers came back up covered in blood.

_This is no time to be lounging around, Aclassi!_ Fighting through the pain, his teeth thick with saliva and dirt, Krem struggled to his feet. With a quick twist of his head, he surveyed the damage. All of the Chargers had been knocked down, but all were rising to their feet again, except for one. A red-striped bronze lump lay upon the ground in torn fabric of brown and green, half the face missing, the other half topped by a shock of dark brown hair.

_Skinner is dead._

A stray thought, it didn’t fully register. Instead, Krem was already shouting an order to his men to _Close that distance!_ Up close, the mages would fall like any other man beneath his steel. They only had to get within striking distance.

As they charged, another mage raised his staff. Bright yellow light spewed forth from it. Krem dodged, skidding out of its path. He felt the heat of the magic spell as it roared by his face, singeing half his hair. Briefly he could smell the acrid odor of burnt hair, but a moment later it was replaced by something worse. Burning flesh.

Behind him, Rocky was screaming, engulfed in magical fire. So hot, his clothing immediately turned to ash, and his flesh liquefied like candle wax, melting from his very bones.

Roaring with rage, Krem ran forward, raising his sword, about to strike down the mage who had just murdered his friend. He’d closed the distance between him and the enemy. So close, he could see the bloodshot whites of the man’s eyes, and smell the fetid odor of his breath, a revolting mix of onions and rotted teeth.

Still roaring, Krem brought down his sword.

Crunch of bone as Krem’s hammer shattered the enemy’s skull, spattering blood and brain across his face and neck.

Victory was his. For a few seconds only, Krem believed that the tide had turned, and that they could still win the fight. _We got this..._ he thought, and whirled, ready to take down another foe.

Before him, a dark-skinned woman in darker robes. Somehow time seemed to slow down as Krem looked at her. It was only for a second, but he saw every detail. The animal fear in her wide eyes. The way a curly tendril had escaped from the scarf that covered her hair. The toes of her dainty satin slipped sticking out. In her hand, a rather slender and elegant staff, topped with a pale white crystal. All around it magic crackled, swirling in orbit like maddened fireflies.

He’d killed women before, but only if the situation was life or death, as it was now. Except that before Krem could crush her pretty head with one mighty blow of his silver hammer, she screamed a word in twisted Tevene, thus casting her spell.

The word – which Krem recognized – was _kill._

Magic shot forth out of the wand. It struck him dead center in the chest, the force of it so strong that it sent his body flying back. In a crash of metal, Krem struck the ground hard enough that he sent up a scattershot of sand.

Stunned, Krem could only lie there. His weapon lay far away, beyond his reach. On his other side, the broken body of their archer, eyes open but no longer seeing. He tried to draw a breath, but his rib cage had been crushed by the force of the blow, and the broken bones had pierced his lungs. A weak cough rattled the blood up out of his lungs and rained down in dark droplets around his head in the sand.

The pain was exquisite.

He didn’t know what had happened to Grim.

Far above him, the sun peeked out from among the clouds. So bright, it burned his eyes. Blinking, he looked up, up, up. At the top of the cliff he could just make out a number of figures standing at the edge. One larger than the others.

On memory flashed through Krem’s mind.

_His shirt torn. Taste of sawdust from the tavern floor after they’d shoved his face down, grinding it into the hardwood. The Tribune himself standing over Krem, a spiteful look of pure loathing on his face. All because Krem had dared to live quietly as his authentic self, as a man. The Tribune asking his subordinate for his flail. Lifting his arm to deliver the killing blow. Krem so beaten and defeated that he was ready to welcome his own death..._

_Then a shout. A blur of a monster, all horns and muscle. Sickening thud of the flail, then blood spurting from the horned man’s face. The Tribune’s neck audibly snapping. More heavy thuds as the bodies hit the floor. Relief and wonder as his Qunari savior reached down a hand, grinning despite the ravages the flail had done to his face still dripping blood, his rumbling voice deep and soothing like the sea._

_You’re safe now. I’m Iron Bull. What do you want me to call you?_

Another weak cough rattled the blood out of his mouth.

Bitter, the end, yet his faith in the Iron Bull remained unshaken.

No one heard Cremisius Aclassi’s final scattered thoughts as he died.

_Copper on the lips._

_Dalish lies dead-eyed beside me._

_He’ll come, he’ll call, he won’t leave us._

_Horns pointing up._

***

The rain in the Storm Coast continued to fall.

They had stayed to loot the Venatori camp, and search for clues. Gatt, perhaps due to the tension in the air, had made a hasty departure after promising to get in touch with the Inquisition regarding the alliance soon. Dorian had been given the task of translating the documents in Tevene that they had unearthed from among the dead. Although there had been a large number of them, so far he’d found no intel that would be of particular use to the Inquisition.

It was also a dull task. His patience worn thin, he nearly snapped at Fenris, who was standing guard not too far from him, near the edge of path that led down from the cliff. “You know,” he said as he waved a sheaf of parchment pages in Fenris’ direction. “A little help here would be appreciated.”

Fenris startled. Then regarded the papers in Dorian’s hand for a moment before meeting Dorian’s gaze. Stiffly, he replied, “I don’t know how to read,” he said, then added, “In Tevene.”

That drew Dorian up short. He’d momentarily forgotten that slaves in Tevinter were not permitted to read. “There’s no reason that you couldn’t learn now,” Dorian said. “I could teach you, if you wish.”

A memory rose up, unbidden. Hawke in the mansion in Hightown, the book about Shartan in his hands, his expression soft as clouds. _It’s not too late to learn, Fenris._

Funny how the past could still hurt this much.

Fenris’ lips became a thin line. He gave a quick shake of his head, as if that could dislodge the memory. “I can read common just fine,” he said. “That is enough.”

Dorian looked skeptical, but before he could say anything else, Fenris turned and walked away.

The campsite wasn’t very large, so the distance he could put between himself and Dorian was slim. And it also put him in close proximity of the others, who stood huddled miserably in the rain.

Bull was speaking. “I’ll only be gone for a few minutes, Boss. If there’s any trouble, I’ll handle it.”

Trevelyan fretted, his fingers fidgeting with the buttons on his robes. “I still don’t think you should go down there alone.”

Varric gave a half-shrug. “He’s got a point, Tiny. Storm Coast at night? That’s all sorts of nasty that could be wandering through the dark trying to _eat_ you.”

Bull shifted perceptibly. Head held higher, spine straight, shoulders back. By now Fenris could easily recognize a man who was about to issue a challenge. And from what he knew about the Inquisitor, the man – despite being old enough to know better – didn’t have the wisdom to know when to back down.

Before things could escalate, Fenris stepped in. “I’ll go with you.”

All eyes turned to Fenris. Trevelyan, chewing on his lip, seemed to consider his proposal most seriously. Then he glanced back at the Qunari. “Bull? Is it all right if Fenris accompanies you?”

Bull scrutinized Fenris, also seeming to consider this most seriously. Then he visibly relaxed, as though someone had removed the steel from his spine. “Fine with me,” he told the Inquisitor. He then gestured at Fenris. “Come on, then. It won’t take long.”

Fenris nodded, then followed Bull as he made his way down the path.

The trail had become even more slippery after a day of rain, but Bull moved nimbly through the landscape like a ghost. With his much shorter legs, Fenris scrambled to keep up, trying to ignore the icky sensation of the cold wet mud below his feet as it squelched between his toes.

Down, down, down the mountain they went, accompanied by the chirps of birds and frogs, and other unseen creatures slithering in the grass. They didn’t talk. In the face of so much death, words seemed pointless.

They finally arrived on the beach. To their right, the waves shush-hushed against the shore, while before them spread the battlefield.

Fenris remained a few respectful paces behind Bull as he advanced, walking among the corpses. At each one he stopped, his head hanging in perhaps a silent prayer for a moment before moving to the next. First Grim, then Dalish and Skinner, then Bull stopped to gather up a handful of dust from a pile from a pile of ash and bones. It took Fenris a moment to realize that the pile had once been Rocky.

Bull stopped at the final corpse. Fenris forced himself to gaze down at Krem’s body. Except for his dead, staring eyes and a trickle of blood from his mouth, he could have been alive.

Bull paused for a longer moment at the body of his lieutenant. Then he turned and walked into the sea.

Cold sea water washed up around his knees as Fenris followed. Beneath his bare feet, he could feel the slimy rub of the pebbles, and the seaweed as it caught between his toes. Pushing forward against the sloshing waves, he stopped at Bull’s side.

Bull glanced down at him. “Krem, Rocky, Dalish, all of ‘em. Dead for the Iron Bull. A man who never really existed.”

Fenris, silent, waited.

Bull turned. For a long moment he just stared at the moon. Then he turned back again. “I think I’m done leading mercenaries into battle.”

Fenris thought. He’d been “Leto Rilienus” once. And even though he now had those memories back, he knew that his experiences had irrevocably changed him. He was no longer that innocent boy lost in the throes of a profound first love, and never would be again. Instead, he’d become Fenris – the little wolf. And although Danarius had given him that name, by becoming a fierce fighter, he’d made it his own.

“You can still be the Iron Bull,” Fenris said.

“I plan to. Chargers or no, it’s fun role, and I like Orlesian food.” Bull smiled, but the smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. “But I’ve been away from the Qun for too many years. This was a good reminder of who I really am.”

Fenris remained silent. Though he wondered, Who was the Iron Bull, really? Who was Fenris? Or Dorian Pavus? Who was anyone, really? Could anyone truly live openly and honestly as themselves, or were they all like the Orlesian nobles, hiding all the real intentions behind masks?

Bull turned back to the sea. Lifted the big hand that held the dwarf’s dust. “Sorry, guys,” he said softly. “I don’t know any prayers from the Chantry, or whatever Rocky and Dalish believed in.” Opening his hand, he let the ashes blow in the breeze, to be carried away by the waves. “ _Ataash varin kata. Asit tal-eb.”_

_In the end lies glory._

_The way things are meant to be._

***

After Dorian watched Fenris and Bull disappear down the slippery slope and out of view, he turned his attention on the remaining two members of the party – Trevelyan and Varric. Although he couldn’t hear them, he could see Varric’s lips moving. The dwarf then laid a comforting hand on Trevelyan’s arm and said something more before he moved away. A moment later, he had ducked into one of the tents.

_A fine idea, retiring for the night, rather than standing out like an idiot in this rain,_ Dorian thought. He half-expected that Trevelyan would do the same, but the man remained where he was, facing the forest, his back to Dorian, still as a Chantry statue. Despite a strong desire to escape the rain, Dorian hesitated, uncertain.

_Fuck it._

The rain was pelting them harder now. Both of them soaked through to their small clothes by now, and dark hair plastered wetly to their heads. As Dorian approached, he caught a glimpse of Trevelyan’s rain-streaked face, eyes staring at nothing, a twisted grimace upon his lips. It took Dorian a moment to realize that it wasn’t just rain on the man’s face, but also tears.

“Inquisitor...?”

Trevelyan turned. In his eyes, pain. Fear. Madness.

“It’s my fault that they’re dead.” His voice was a thin warble – impossibly thin. Raising his hands, he clawed helplessly at the air. “Krem. Cole. Cullen. The Champion. All of them, Dorian. _I killed them.”_

Dorian felt his body grow hot and tight, and he struggled to ignore that queasy sensation at the pit of his stomach, as though he’d just swallowed poison. _Maker help us all, the Inquisitor has lost it._

Trevelyan’s eyes, nearly lost beneath the dark wet hair, glittered with more tears. Lurching forward, his fingers clutched at the front of Dorian’s robes in despair. “We can’t let Corypheus win. I knew there’d be a price. I just didn’t know how high.” His hands tightened in Dorian’s robes, fingers purchasing the flesh below almost painfully. He leaned forward, his voice a quivering whisper. “Everyone is going to die _and it will be my fault.”_

Dorian’s first instinct was to run – to put as much distance between himself and this madman. Not because he was afraid, but because it was agonizing to watch. Fighting it, he drew a deep breath and reached up for the Inquisitor’s hands, in part to pry them from his flesh, and in part to offer comfort.

Dorian didn’t know what to say. Offering cheerful platitudes wasn’t his style, and to be honest, since Cullen’s death, the cynical part of him couldn’t help but feel that their deaths were indeed inevitable. Even while another small part of him had hoped that Trevelyan would surprise him by saving the world.

Still, he knew that he had to say something. Hoping that inspiration would magically strike, he opened his mouth to speak. But Trevelyan cut him off.

“You should hate me, Dorian,” he whispered, eyes round as the moons, and dancing with madness. _“I’m a monster.”_

Choking back a sob, Dorian did the only thing he could think of. Jerking on Trevelyan’s wrists, Dorian reeled the Inquisitor into his arms. Let the man rage and weep openly against Dorian’s shoulder. Holding him as if he would never let him go, and murmuring soft words of comfort over and over into his ear.

_I’m here for you, Inquisitor._

_I’m here._

_I’m here._

 


	12. A Terrible Price

_There. That must be the Temple of Mythal..._

Everything green. The enclosing walls of the corridor marred by moss. Weeds grown rampant through the cracks in the path. Twisted tree trunks and roots toppling the ancient stone. How long since any man or elf had walked these paths? For how many centuries had the ruins remained undisturbed, the Eluvian hidden safely within?

Behind them, the forest turning to ash as the battle between the clashing armies of Red Templars and the Inquisition raged on. Before them, at the end of the long tunnel of stone, a bright light. As they surged forward, they heard the sounds of fighting ahead.

_So much for being the first ones here in centuries,_ Dorian mused.

Trevelyan slowed down, lifting a hand in warning. At his side, Morrigan. There was something that Dorian didn’t quite trust about her, but the witch had insisted that she come along with them, that she was the only one who could control the power of the magic mirror they sought.

Utter bullshit, surely.

Beside Dorian, Sera sniffed the air. “More fighting,” she murmured. “Can’t be good, yeah? Hold on to yer staff.”

_That_ was the understatement of the century. Nothing about this situation was good. Though Dorian did indeed tighten his grip on his staff, and didn’t fail to note how both Fenris and Cassandra each reached for their swords.

Creeping forward silently, they stepped out into the light, and found themselves upon a balcony ringed by a balustrade. Above them, a handful of crows screeched as they wheeled through the mist. Strewn upon the ground were at least a dozen corpses, each pocked with arrows. Each of them half-human, half-crystalline. Red Templars.

Trevelyan picked his way slowly across, then crouched down to peer over the railing at the scene below.

Dorian felt his heart skip a beat as he recognized Corypheus. Flanked by more Red Templars, including the Captain of his army – Samson. Who he didn’t recognize was the group of tall archers with their pale tattooed faces who stood at the entrance to the bridge, facing them down.

One of the elves, holding a staff and not a bow – _the leader?_ – shouted something in what Dorian presumed to be elvhen. A language that none of them – not even Sera or Fenris – spoke.

Corypheus strode forward. The half dozen archers on the bridge raised their bows. “These are but remnants,” Corypheus scoffed, his voice, loud enough to be heard, sending a shiver down Dorian’s spine. “They will not keep us from the Well of Sorrows.”

_Well of Sorrows?_ Dorian didn’t know what that was. Nor did Trevelyan, who shot Morrigan a curious look. In response, the witch shrugged, looking just as confused as the rest of them.

As Corypheus stepped forward, the statues flanking the bridge lit up with magical light. For a moment they glowed a brilliant, fierce blue before bolts of lightning shot out of them, magical wires that spiraled around the darkspawn’s body before encircling him in their grasp.

Dorian and the others watched in wonder as Corypheus let out a roar. Struggled against his magical bonds until he managed to thrust out one arm, seizing the elvhen leader, one massive clawed hand obscuring the elf’s face. With another roar, the darkspawn jerked the elf’s body up into the air. The staff dropped, the elf clawed at the hand on his face while his legs kicked futilely in the air.

Something strange happened.

From his bones, Corypheus’ flesh began to melt. Eyes dripping from his sockets as his mouth became a dark cavern cawing in pain.

The ensuing blast that burst from Corypheus’ body knocked down every elf on the bridge.

They did not rise again.

For a moment, the Inquisition watched in stunned silence as Samson snapped an order, then led the remaining Red Templars over the bridge. Each of them careful not to step on the scorched mark on the stone where Corypheus had stood mere moments before.

Trevelyan waited until the last of the Templars had slipped from view before gesturing at the others to follow. Moving cautiously, they made their way down the stairs to the terrace below, picking their way among more corpses, the bright blue and silver of the Wardens among them.

It suddenly struck Dorian.

_Corypheus... is dead._

He almost had to convince himself that he hadn’t imagined it. That somehow a group of strange elves had managed to fulfill the Inquisition’s task. All they had been working for, all this time, over just like that, with none of the glory. But a victory nonetheless.

Dorian glanced at Fenris. Green eyes met his. In them, the same light of recognition that Dorian felt. He _hadn’t_ imagined it, after all.

Behind them, something cracked.

Turning, they saw that one of the Wardens had risen to his knees. At first, Dorian believed it was merely a survivor from the previous battle. But then the Warden’s head snapped back. Blood gushed like a geyser from out of his throat, spewing up into the air. As if on a puppeteer’s strings, the Warden’s body jerked and twitched.

From out of the Warden’s mouth, a large clawed hand emerged, stretching out as if trying to clutch the sun.

Morrigan gasped. “It cannot be!”

Trevelyan was already moving, shouting. “Across the bridge! Now!”

_Not... dead._ Frozen to the spot, Dorian tried to fathom it. What grand magic was this, one that allowed a dead man to not only jump bodies, but to rise in his original form from within like a phoenix? And how in the Maker’s name were they supposed to defeat someone who could not be killed?

Before him, Corypheus threw back his head and screamed into the sky, calling down his dragon.

Suddenly, a hand clasped his, and was forcing him to run, pulling him away from danger. Fingers entwined so tightly, as if he would never let go.

Fenris.

***

Sera and Trevelyan pushed shut the doors. As the doors fell into place, the dragon slammed up against them. Shaking, the two of them staggered back, eyeing the doors warily as if expecting the beast to break through.

For a moment they all stood still, breathing heavily in the silence.

Dorian realized that Fenris was still holding his hand. Without thinking – meaning, perhaps, to only be reassuring – he gave Fenris’ hand a squeeze.

Fenris flinched. Then he hastily withdrew his hand, holding it protectively against his chest as if he’d just been burned.

_My touch still repulses him,_ Dorian thought with dismay. A momentary thought, as Cassandra suddenly blazed to life. In a few short strides, she had crossed the distance between her and Morrigan, and practically spat in the witch’s face. “You said Corypheus wanted an Eluvian, but he mentioned a Well of Sorrows!”

Morrigan reached up to scratch her head, looking lost. “I am... uncertain of what he referred to.”

Cassandra crossed her arms and gave Morrigan a dark look.

Morrigan sighed. “Yes, I was wrong,” she snapped defensively. “Does that please you?”

“What would please me, witch, is to have some answers,” Cassandra said coldly as she advanced another step. “The first question would be: Can we even trust you? Or are you here to advance your own agenda?”

Suddenly Trevelyan was between them, physically pulling them apart. “Fighting isn’t going to get us anywhere!” he said. “Now. We’re going to find this Well of Sorrows – whatever it is – before _he_ does.”

***

They were lost, hopelessly lost, in the Temple of Mythal.

Not only had they turned themselves around, they’d also talked themselves around in circles. Morrigan still tried to maintain the facade that she knew what she was doing, but even her knowledge did not extend to the magic that had made Corypheus immortal. Adding to the tension were the skirmishes between the strange elves – whoever they were – and Corypheus’ men. At least until the latter escaped by leaping down through a dark chasm in the center of the broken temple floor.

Gazing down into it, they were greeted with darkness.

Not a very reassuring sight.

As Trevelyan hovered at the edge in indecision, Morrigan spoke. “There is a path.”

All eyes turned to her.

Morrigan pointed to the platform behind them. “While they rush ahead, this leads to our true destination. We should walk the petitioner’s path, as before.”

Trevelyan’s gaze floated over the platform, then back to the chasm, the uncertainty clear upon his face. This was not the same Inquisitor who had cheerfully and confidently led Dorian through that horrific future Alexius had tossed them into. No, this was a man who was barely holding it together, the one who had raged and wept against Dorian’s shoulder at the Storm Coast, convinced that they were all going to die. As the realization struck him, Dorian felt his heart sink.

Lost, Trevelyan looked at the others for guidance.

Cassandra spoke first. “An army fights and dies for us. The longer we tarry, the more soldiers we lose outside. Let’s jump down and be done with this place.”

One vote for the chasm, then. Perhaps Dorian was more attuned to the magics that permeated the temple than the non-mages, because he could feel them. Something cold, ancient and... strange, unlike anything he’d ever encountered before. “Just a thought,” he said as Trevelyan’s gaze landed upon him. “Maybe rushing through this place like a mad bull isn’t the best plan?”

Trevelyan looked at Fenris next. “Cassandra’s right,” the elf said. “If we’re going to stop Corypheus’ men from reaching this well, we must get there as quickly as possible.”

Finally, he looked at Sera. “This whole place is giving me the creeps, yeah? Those blighters seem to know where they’re goin’, and we don’t. Ain’t no point in messin’ around with some bleedin’ elvhen path goin’ nobody knows where.”

Dorian remained silent as Morrigan argued her case. Dorian wasn’t entirely pleased to have Morrigan on his side of the argument. Nor to be outnumbered three to two. Still, Trevelyan was also a mage like them – didn’t he feel the magics in the air? He may have been a somewhat reckless and impulsive man, but he wasn’t a complete and utter fool.

Was he?

Trevelyan held up a hand: _enough._

“We’ll jump.”

His decision made, he could no longer be swayed. They each lined up on the brink of the chasm, each preparing themselves mentally for the jump.

In hindsight, it was a mistake.

In hindsight, it was just one more mistake in a long line of mistakes that the Inquisition had made.

Dorian could scarcely bring himself to care anymore. After all, they were fighting a monster that couldn’t be killed. There was no way for this to end _well_. In his most pessimistic moments, Dorian believed what the Inquisitor had predicted, that they were all going to die, so their actions didn’t really matter.

Holding his breath, Dorian stepped off the ledge and plunged into the abyss.

***

Fenris had thought that he knew his history. Growing up in Tevinter, elvhen lore had been passed down orally from generation to generation. Yet what the guardian was saying was at odds with what he’d believed: that the Imperium had been responsible for the fall of Arlathan, and the subsequent enslavement of his people.

The same history written down by the magisters. A history of settlements disappearing, of skirmishes, and of the grand destruction by the demon and dragon thralls of the magisters. Justification for slavery. All of it false. Instead, the truth was that the elves had fought among themselves, bringing about their own downfall. The humans from Tevinter had only taken advantage of the elves’ weakened state.

Dorian sputtered. “What did the Imperium do, then? Are you saying it wasn’t a war?”

“The war of carrion feasting upon a corpse, yes,” the guardian said.

His voice echoed through the chamber. Following the Inquisitor, they’d arrived here after many more twists and turns, fighting each step of the way. Yet Samson and his men had continued to elude them. And now they were trapped like rats, with a long line of archers standing behind them, arrows nocked.

Beside him, Dorian remained in stunned silence.

_Does it even matter?_ To Fenris, it made no difference whether the humans had destroyed the elves, or if they’d destroyed themselves. Only his years suffering in slavery mattered. There was no justification.

Trevelyan took a step forward, looking up at the guardian, his voice an impassioned plea. Anything to defuse the situation.“We did not come here to fight you. Nor to steal from your temple.”

Abelas shook his head. “I do not believe you,” he said. “Our duty is clear. The _Vir’abelesan_ shall not be usurped. Even if I must destroy it.”

Abelas turned and ran.

Several things happened at once.

Morrigan shouted, “No!” Surging forward, she cast her spell. Strong magic crackled, singeing the air, as the witch changed her shape. With several flaps of her dark wings she soared up into the air, speeding after Abelas.

“Morrigan!” Trevelyan jumped forward, arms outstretched in an attempt to catch her. But she slipped out of his grasp.

Fenris’ head snapped around just in time to see the archers release their arrows.

He and Dorian had been maintaining the rear. Which meant that all the arrows were directed at them.

Fenris didn’t have time to think. Instead, upon seeing the danger, he reacted. Screaming Dorian’s name, Fenris pushed off from the floor and rushed towards the mage. Hands outstretched he shoved Dorian out of the way, so hard that the collision caused both of them to stumble, bodies caught up in a tangle as they crashed to the floor.

Arrows whizzed through the air where they’d been standing only mere seconds before.

Beneath him, Dorian gasped for air.

Relief flooded through Fenris.

_Thank the Maker he’s safe._

At the same time, magic burst out of Trevelyan’s staff, bounding across the chamber, arching above all their heads to splash down upon the archers. Like a tidal wave it crashed down, obliterating everyone in its path. Powerful magic, bows clattered to the floor as elvhen bodies were reduced to nothing more than piles of bones and ash.

All of them dead – just like that.

A moment of silence ticked by.

Then Cassandra made a funny noise.

Fenris managed to untangle himself from Dorian. Glanced at Cassandra before following her gaze to Sera, who had been standing directly in front of him at the moment of the attack – and now stood behind them. At her side, her bow dangled in one hand, an arrow in the other. In her pale face, her blue eyes wide as the sky in shock.

Through the center of her throat, an arrow.

_Fuck._

The arrow had pierced through the front, but it had not passed all the way through. Instead it was lodged there, it’s blood-tipped point aligned with her spine, while the green fletching quivered between her chin and collarbones. As Fenris stared, a small rivulet of blood began to trickle down her neck.

For a moment, Sera hovered on her feet. Then her knees buckled, and she sank slowly down to the floor.

Terror twisted the Inquisitor’s face into something inhuman. Sobbing Sera’s name, he dropped his staff in his haste to reach her side. Falling down to his knees, he gathered Sera up in his arms, pulling her into his lap.

Dorian, Fenris and Cassandra ran over, skidding to a stop before them.

Up close, Fenris could see Sera’s chest laboring for breath. Could see her lips moving, though no sound came out. Fingers clawing weakly at her throat.

Clutching the elvhen girl tightly to his chest, Trevelyan turned his twisted face up to the others. His voice was a thin wail, echoing round and round the empty chamber. “What do we do? I don’t know _what to do!”_

Cassandra grimaced. “If we remove the arrow, she’ll most likely bleed to death,” the warrior said flatly. “If she doesn’t suffocate first.”

For the first time ever, Fenris actually wished that Anders were here – as much as Fenris had always despised the mage, his healing skills were formidable. “Cassandra is right,” he said, then added, “The only thing we can do is to end her suffering.”

Two tears spilled from Trevelyan’s eyes, and streaked down his dirty face. “Andraste’s fucking tits,” he whispered. “I _can’t.”_

Fenris hadn’t been friends with the girl, exactly. They’d had a few drinks together. He’d thought her too loud, too boisterous, too much. But he’d never wished her ill, and watching her die slowly, in agony, was difficult to bear.

He placed a gentle hand on Trevelyan’s shoulder. Dark eyes blinked up hopefully at him. Did the man truly expect a miracle? Did he not know how Danarius had inscribed Fenris’ flesh with the lyrium in over to create a machine of death?

Fenris spoke softly. “I can do it.”

He heard Dorian, standing behind him, catch his breath. “Fenris. Don’t –”

Fenris ignored him. Kept his gaze fixed on Trevelyan. A heartbeat, then another. Then Trevelyan slightly loosened his grip. Nodded at Fenris. “Do it.”

Fenris knelt down before them. In Sera’s eyes: fear.

Lyrium ghost was almost second nature to him now. He let his markings flare to life. He would make it painless and quick. His arm insubstantial, he punched through Sera’s chest, and gently cupped her heart in his hand.

_I am the judgment in a world of woe._

_I am the sin and her shadow misery._

_I am the harbinger of death._

_***_

The Well of Sorrows turned out to be a lake.

Somehow, miraculously, they had beaten Corypheus to the prize. They had also killed everyone who had opposed them, including both Corypheus’ soldiers and the ancient elves who protected this place.

_Protected this place from people like us,_ Trevelyan thought.

But he already knew what he had to do. There was power here – power that could serve the Inquisition. And he did not trust Morrigan. “If anyone is to use the well – it will be me.”

Rage flashed in Morrigan’s eyes. She’d come so close to the prize, not expecting it to be snatched away at the last minute. “I read more in the first chamber than I revealed,” she said. “It said a great boon is given to those who use the Well of Sorrows, but at a terrible price.”

Grim determination tightened his lips. “If there is a price to pay, then I will pay it.”

Morrigan protested. “So you will take what little knowledge you can understand, and let the rest go to waste?”

Trevelyan spun around. Eyes flashing, he hissed into the witch’s face. “Sera just died _in my arms,”_ he said. “I will _not_ risk losing someone else again for my sake. Not even you, Morrigan.”

Morrigan blinked. Then all fight seemed to drain right out of her. Her shoulders slumped, she regarded the well for a long moment. Sunlight glistened upon the water, seeming to dance on invisible currents. When she spoke again, her tone was far more subdued. “Perhaps it is better this way...”

Trevelyan looked at the faces of his friends. As usual, Fenris’ expression was guarded. In Dorian’s, there was clear disappointment. But Cassandra gave him a small nod in approval – whether it was because he’d finally put Morrigan in her place, or because he’d decided to take the power of the well for himself, he didn’t know. Still, it was enough to give him the strength to carry on.

Drawing a deep breath, Maxwell Trevelyan stepped into the well. Cupping his hands, he lifted the water to his lips and drank.

Immediately, his already crowded head was filled with the voices of the dead.

Already driven to brink of his sanity, it was enough to cast him over the edge, and send him spiraling down.

Down, down, down into the dark and terrible madness.

***

The stone was cold against his back, the corridor full of shadows.

Fenris stared down at his hands. _These hands... so stained with blood._ He’d lost track of the number of hearts he’d stopped long ago. But until Sera, he’d only ever murdered his enemies, and had never regretted a single kill. The fact that it was a mercy killing did nothing to assuage his guilt.

_It could have been Dorian..._

It wasn’t the first time that Fenris had realized this since they’d fled through the Eluvian back to Skyhold. The thought plagued him. Strangely the idea of losing Dorian pained him more than he cared to admit, even to himself. And yet – here he was again, in the hall outside of the mage’s room, waiting for his return.

He hadn’t been waiting long when familiar footsteps echoed down the corridor, and then Dorian appeared.

Fenris had spent too many nights, trying to drown out the memories that Dorian had returned to him. Too many nights _yearning_ for what he’d lost. That dream of being loved, of being touched without pain – it had been _real._ And now, he was haunted to distraction by the ghost of the boy he’d loved truly and deeply, the same boy in the man now before him.

For a moment, Dorian regarded him in silence. He didn’t seem particularly surprised. Instead, he just seemed weary, as if he were carrying all the ills of the world upon his shoulders. Then he reached into a pocket to withdraw the key that would unlock his room. Pushing the door open, he glanced down at Fenris. “Well, are you coming in? Or are you just going to sit there?”

Inside the room, Fenris hovered, uncertain, by the door. Ignoring Fenris’ discomfort, Dorian shrugged out of his robes before tossing them carelessly aside on the chair, speaking almost jovially as he did so.

“I’ve just been to see Josephine. I’ve been rather concerned about the Inquisitor since he drank from the well,” he said, though, to be be honest, _concerned_ was really an understatement regarding how Dorian felt. More like _alarmed_. Things for the Inquisitor hadn’t been going well. And since their return – not that this was common knowledge – Trevelyan had been hearing voices. Voices that told him he needed to kill Corypheus’ red lyrium dragon. Voices that he’d been trying to unsuccessfully quiet with too much Antivan Sip Sip. Not that Josephine had used these words, but it was quite clear to Dorian, at least, that the Inquisitor was completely cracking up.

“At any rate,” Dorian continued. “It also appears that Morrigan has been in quite the tizzy. Convinced that the Inquisitor is somehow now in the thrall of a goddess. And that we should all take a trip to the Altar of Mythal in order to figure out what to do next.”

Silent, Fenris listened. One thing that hadn’t changed was how much Dorian loved the sound of his own voice. Not that Fenris wasn’t also concerned, but he hadn’t come here to talk about the Inquisition. Arms crossed, he waited impatiently until there was a lull in Dorian’s monologue, and then he spoke, his tone accusatory. “You promised that you would come back for me,” he said. “But you _didn’t.”_

Dorian’s expression immediately changed, becoming grim. Flash of _hurt_ in his eyes. Still, if this is what Fenris wanted to discuss, then so be it. Maker knew that this conversation had been a long time in coming.

The words burst out of Dorian, harsher than he’d intended. Dripping with _the hurt._ “They told me you were _dead,”_ he snapped. He began to pace the short distance between the wardrobe and the bed. “Do you have any idea how that made me feel? I _mourned_ you.”

Fenris became silent again as he watched Dorian pace. Fists clenched. Lips thin. “I thought...” he faltered, then licked his lips and tried again. “I thought you’d forgotten about me.”

Dorian stopped suddenly. Whirled about. “Forgotten you?” His voice warbled, cracking with emotion. “I wish I could have! You have no idea what it was like. The way I suffered, without you. Knowing that I could have –” Dorian’s voice cracked. To calm himself, he drew in a shaky breath. “That night. In the slave house. I’d come to ask you. If you’d run away with me.”

That memory was still as clear as a clean mountain lake. Dorian’s promise. Their final kiss before they’d been torn apart. It burned like venom in his blood, burned like his heart was a house on fire. So vivid, he could still taste the bitterness of his pain and disappointment, like sour milk in his mouth.

Weary, Fenris lifted his head. Met Dorian’s eyes in the dim light of his room. “I would have said yes.”

Echo of Cole: _He would have said yes._

Dorian staggered back as though all the air had been knocked out of him. Slumped against the wardrobe, he pressed his fist against his lips.

Dorian’s distress tore at the very fabric of his soul. The last thing Fenris wanted was to cause his ex-lover pain. He stepped forward, not knowing precisely what his intentions were. Hand extended, he closed the distance, but then stayed his hand. In the space between them, it trembled. “Dorian...”

Dorian dropped his own hand. With eyes nearly all pupil but for a slim circumference of mercury in the dim, he drank Fenris in. Then drew another breath. “Don’t. Don’t say anything you’re going to regret in the morning.”

There it was – something that Fenris had never expected to see in Dorian Pavus – a flash of vulnerability. Fear of being hurt. A fear that Fenris understood all too well, one that had compelled him to remain alone for all those years after he’d escaped from Tevinter.

Fenris was no longer that innocent, love-struck boy he’d once been in Qarinus. His years of torment at the hands of Danarius, then all those years on the run, had twisted something inside him. But the magisters had not broken him. Nor could those terrible experiences tarnish the sweet memories of the happiness he’d once felt with Dorian.

He’d come to Dorian’s room dead sober, it took all his courage to speak his next words. “If you want me to stay – I will.”

For a moment, Dorian’s eyes delved deeply into his, seeking the sincerity of his intent. Then, as all doubt drained away from his face, Dorian stepped forward. Lifting both hands, he then placed them gently on the sides of Fenris’ face. Pausing briefly, he considered, torn – _Devour him? Or make it gentle?_

Dorian’s fingers were warm. Breathing in, he smelled Dorian’s familiar scent, and it was enough to cause a quiver of anticipation to course through him. Eyes already half closed, his voice was a breathless plea. “Please...”

Dorian leaned in. Lips soft as flower petals. Fenris felt his heart hammering as Dorian continued to a press a slow, deep and sensual kiss against his mouth. A low moan muffled as Dorian’s tongue slipped past his lips to dance teasingly against his.

Never had anyone kissed Fenris with such expertise. Gone was the exploratory fumbling that had marked their youthful encounters. Somewhere, Dorian had learned how to make a man go weak in the knees with just a kiss like this, and Fenris felt an odd spike of jealousy at the thought of Dorian – _his Dorian_ – fucking other men.

For a moment, the hot fire of jealousy consumed him. Then, wisely, he let it go. Let himself be consumed instead by Dorian’s kiss.

Dorian slid one languid hand down. Fingers tripping over the edge of his jaw to land on his neck. Followed by a jolt of pain like jagged glass being scraped over his skin as Dorian’s fingers brushed over his scars, and he flinched.

Dorian immediately broke off the kiss. His expression one of worry as he forced Fenris to meet his eyes. “Did I... hurt you?”

“No,” Fenris lied through gritted teeth. “It’s... fine.”

Skeptical, Dorian continued to regard him for a moment. Then, quite purposefully, he placed his hand on Fenris’ chest.

That jagged glass feeling burst across his collarbones. Despite his best efforts to pretend, Fenris couldn’t stop himself from flinching again.

Dorian jerked his hand back. For a long moment he looked at Fenris with confusion. Fenris could see very clearly when understanding dawned in Dorian’s eyes.

“Your markings!” Dorian exclaimed. “They actually cause you pain when I touch them, don’t they?”

At his side, Fenris’ hands clenched into fists. The memories of their passion were so vivid that they scorched his soul and plunged his entire body into a lake of yearning. Words couldn’t describe how desperately he ached for Dorian’s touch. He’d never wanted anything as badly as he wanted Dorian right now. “I will.... endure.”

Dorian’s eyes widened. “Endure...? I don’t...” He trailed off, suddenly becoming grim. “No! I don’t want your having sex with me something you have to ‘endure,’” he snapped. “And hurting you is the absolute last thing I want to do!”

Fenris knew he was losing his opportunity. Dorian had always been stubborn, and it had never been easy convincing him to do anything – including the things he _wanted_ to do. Fenris was almost surprised by how badly it stung, as though his heart had been callously tossed into a bed of thorns. “Dorian...”

Dorian’s eyes traced over the lyrium scars that curved down Fenris’ chin before blossoming, fern-like, across his neck. His expression became more grim, his voice seething with barely restrained anger. “I’ll kill that Danarius.”

“He’s already dead.” Fenris reached out, placing both hands on Dorian’s shoulders, fingers curling into the leathers and sharply into the flesh below. “Please, Dorian. I... need this. I need _you.”_

The effect of these words was immediate and visible. All anger drained away in an instant, leaving the mage oddly soft and vulnerable, like a kit caught in a trap. Reaching up, Dorian skimmed his fingers over the unmarred skin of Fenris’ face. “Then, with Hawke...” he began, uncharacteristically fumbling for words, “I mean, you must have... that is, I assume it wasn’t platonic.”

“No. I... he...” Fenris coughed awkwardly into his fist. “He had a spell.”

Dorian listened quietly as Fenris explained, to the best of his knowledge, Hawke’s method for making the lyrium in his skin “quiet.” Somehow, by focusing on the lyrium itself, Hawke had managed to dampen down Fenris’ powers, and, by doing so, lowered the pain level so that his touch was then tolerable.

Dorian became thoughtful. “And you’d trust me enough to perform the same sort of spell on you?”

Fenris let his hands slide down from Dorian’s shoulders to rest on his chest. Even through Dorian’s clothes, Fenris could feel the heat of Dorian’s body, and the thundering of his beating heart. How badly he wanted this man – to be on him, under him, inside him, in any and every way possible. _Please please please._ “I do.”

The strange thing about lyrium, Dorian mused, was that it could be heard, if only one knew how to listen. Cole had taught him that. At the time, he’d just considered it creepy, never suspecting how useful such knowledge would be. Listening, he could hear the lyrium beneath Fenris’ skin – a cacophony of noise, like fiddle strings played by an angry and frantic minstrel. Experimentally, Dorian lightly touched one of the markings on Fenris’ neck. In response, the sound of the lyrium escalated, becoming louder and more frenetic, reminding Dorian less of music and more of an angry swarm of bees.

Bianca – the real dwarven one – had a theory that lyrium was actually alive. Dorian was still skeptical of this claim. However, _treating_ it as if it were alive was a different matter. As he wove a spell meant to attune Fenris’ flesh to the hum of the lyrium housed within, he also cast a soothe spell on the lyrium itself.

With his magical ear, he heard the sound of the lyrium reduce down to a whispery _shush._

Reaching out, Dorian – lightly, experimentally – traced the scars down Fenris’ neck.

Fenris felt it. The gentle dance of Dorian’s expert fingers upon his skin. Yet, instead of the pain he’d expected, he felt something else in his place. In the wake of Dorian’s touch, pleasure unlike any other he’d ever felt blossomed in his flesh, enough to cause his entire body to quiver with delight, and cause his toes to curl into the rug beneath his bare feet.

Magic.

It felt... _wonderful._

Fenris had never expected this. For a moment he stared at Dorian is wordless shock, even as his body reacted to Dorian’s touch, his body humming like a lute string, aching for _more, more, more._ That seemingly impossible dream of being touched without pain was now within his grasp. Fenris was not a fool, and would not let it go.

Reckless, he threw himself into Dorian’s arms. Peppered his mouth with fiery kisses born of desperate need, even as he drew the mage across the room and down to the bed, into his open arms.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fenris' thoughts during the mercy killing are a reference to John Milton's "Paradise Lost". :)


End file.
